


The Process of Elimination

by zoicite



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ball!AU, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers, Headed toward E in later chapters, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Season 1 of The Bachelorette: Canaan House
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26056432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: The Emperor calls for eligible heirs to compete for a chance to marry his treasured progeny, Her Divine Highness, First Born of the First Reborn.  Each week one House will be sent home until only one remains and the winning heir shall ascend to stand beside Her Divine Highness, hand in hand, with House replenished and legacy secured.Harrow does not intend to compete.Note:This story contains spoilers forHarrow the Ninth.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 156
Kudos: 584





	1. Get the Ball Rolling

**Author's Note:**

> The Invitation
> 
> _ADDRESSING THE HOUSE OF THE NINTH, ITS REVEREND LADY PELLEAMENA HIGHT NOVENARIUS AND ITS REVEREND LORD PRIAM HIGHT NONIUSVIANUS:_
> 
> _Salutations to the House of the Ninth, and blessings upon its tombs, its peaceful dead, and its manifold mysteries._
> 
> _His Celestial Kindliness, the First Reborn, begs this house to honor its love for the Creator, as set in the contract of tenderness made on the day of the Resurrection, and humbly asks for the first fruits of your household, its Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Hight Nonagesimus._
> 
> _For in need now are the Emperor’s most eligible heirs, the most promising future of the King Undying, the faithful and the everlasting! The Emperor calls now for postulants to the position of Bride and Bridegroom--Brooms, if you will!--for his treasured progeny, Her Divine Highness, First Daughter of the First House._
> 
> _To this end we beg the first of your House and their chosen retinue, cavalier, retainers, attendants and domestics, to kneel in glory and attend the finest celebration, a competition that shall lead to that intimate and most sacred union, that of being the Emperor’s chosen Broom, to be united in matrimonial splendor with the First Reborn’s First Born. Eight weeks of trials and only one shall ascend to stand beside Her Divine Highness, hand in hand, with House replenished and legacy secured. Your House shall stand forever at the right elbow of the King of the Nine Renewals, your heirs shall beget heirs and all shall shine bright in the light of the Resurrector of Saints._
> 
> _Eight we hope will be welcomed in the temple of the First House, eight candidates worthy to extend a hand to the Necrolord Highest’s most cherished daughter; and if Her Divine Highness blesses, but does not take, they shall return home in full honor, with trump and timbrel._
> 
> _There are few dutiful gifts so perfect, nor so lovely to his eyes._

The hush that settled over the room at the arrival of Her Divine Highness was the first moment of relief that Harrowhark Nonagesimus had since arriving on the First. She sighed, turned her face away from Aiglamene, and let her eyes fall shut so she could savor that relative calm while it lasted. 

To her left, Ortus scribbled notes onto a scrap of flimsy, the scratching sound familiar and grounding. Behind her to her right, Aiglamene whistled and said, “That one should be climbing the ranks of the Cohort, out on the front. Why this silly marriage game?”

Harrow opened one eye and scanned the room. Her eye found Her Divine Highness immediately, and Aiglamene was right--this was not the woman Harrow expected to find based on the invitation. She expected the sheltered First Daughter of the First House to have the build and attributes of a necromancer, first of all. Harrow’s first mistake; she opened her other eye to confirm. Her Divine Highness was tall--taller than the hunched Aiglamene, taller than Ortus and very much taller than Harrow--and she was _solid_ , distractingly well built. Her brilliant white suit hugged tight to the muscles of her arms and tapered in at her waist, her form obscured only slightly by a filmy pearlescent cloak that hung over one shoulder. The rapier at her side sparkled in the ridiculously bright lights of the room. When the room erupted back into raucous activity, Her Divine Highness appeared at ease with the cacophony of sound and the press of people all vying for a moment of her time. She walked a fine line between imposing and approachable and she appeared to walk it confidently, without a single wobble. 

Harrow took one look at Her Divine Highness and knew with certainty that this daughter of the Emperor Undying would wed the bright and equally solid Crown Princess from the Third. There was no question. It was the obvious choice, the match so blatantly preordained that the First should have cancelled this ball and the competition as soon as the Crown Princess of Ida was born and spared the rest of Houses this torture.

“We should have turned down the invitation,” Harrow said, not for the first time.

“You, of all people, understand why the Ninth could not.”

Harrow did understand and did not want to talk about it with Aiglamene. It was not, after all, Harrow’s choices that led them to this moment. She had inherited those choices nonetheless. She _was_ those choices. She understood that their House needed resources. She understood that their House needed aid. She was not ready to sell herself or her House to obtain it. There had to be a better way than this, if she could only get somewhere quiet to _think_.

Her Divine Highness stood between the representative from the Fifth and her cavalier. She laughed at something the Fifth cavalier said, threw her head back with it to expose the long line of her neck. Harrow watched the necromancer and her cavalier exchange a secretive satisfied glance. They looked quite a bit older than Her Divine Highness, though not so old as to cause a particularly enduring scandal. They were likely no older than Ortus was, after all, and Ortus’s age had not stopped Harrow’s parents from threatening to unite them in marriage if Harrow did not agree to this spectacle. Still, it seemed the Fifth was not trying terribly hard to ensure their victory. 

Beside her, Ortus said, “That’s Lady Abigail Pent.”--Ortus, it turned out, was surprisingly skilled at mingling.--”We met amidst the refreshments. Did you know she’s married to her cavalier?”

“What?” Harrow asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the pair. “Horrific!” She turned to Ortus, her shoulders tight with accusation, and was relieved to find that he simply looked resigned. He shrugged his great sad shoulders, and from this Harrow understood that he was just as befuddled by the discovery as she was. After the meeting with her parents, Ortus got down on his knees--she very nearly fainted with fright --to beg that Harrow answer the First’s call and spare him this fate. By the end of the display she found herself offended by the intensity of his grovelling desperation. 

Ortus sighed heavily and his face took on that faraway look that Harrow recognized as a warning that poetry was imminent. She supposed she should be grateful for what came out of his mouth instead. “Perhaps the timing of the invitation came too late to spare the Fifth our own barely-dodged nuptials.” 

She wasn’t grateful.

“That’s not it,” Aiglamene interjected beside them. “She’d have had plenty of choices on the Fifth, still chose the cavalier.”

“Disgusting,” muttered Harrow. 

“Terrifying,” agreed Ortus.

“Motivation,” said Aiglamene, her eyes sharp on Harrow.

Fuck motivation. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House, was not _competing_ for anyone’s hand in marriage. She did not care one bit that anyone, in this case, happened to be the daughter of the King Undying himself. It changed nothing. The game was crass, base, so far beneath her she could barely see the point of it. She was here in protest and determined to be eliminated during the very first round, that very night. She would find another way. 

When the invitation arrived, she’d presumed--she’d _hoped_ \--it was the letter that they’d been waiting for for centuries, the announcement that the Emperor required Lyctors, the highest position to which a necromancer could aspire. There had been talk for years, centuries, rumors that the diminished number of Hands was untenable, that the Cohort would flounder if something was not done. She’d received numerous letters from the Sixth over the years speculating that the moment was upon them, that their Resurrector could not possibly delay another year. Harrow never responded to a single of the Sixth’s letters. The call for Lyctors never arrived.

That was it then. She’d just have to figure out how to deal with her parents’ threats once she returned to Drearburh. There had to be an exploit, another workaround. Perhaps when the need to produce an heir arose, she could have herself cloned on the Fourth? Perhaps the next Harrowhark would find the options better suited to her. Perhaps she could send Ortus to collect intel on reproductive advances on the other Houses and the night wouldn’t be a complete bust after all.

She turned on Ortus and found herself saying something else, her finger raised in accusation. “If you ever say the word _nuptials_ to me again I’ll drag the bones of Matthias Nonius up from the Anastasian, make you watch while he rips up all eighteen volumes of _The Noniad_ , and then shove the bits of flimsy down your throat with his formerly-heroic bone hands.”

His eyes implored her, pleaded with her once again to win this competition and save them both and Harrow realized, then and there, that her cavalier actually seemed to think she had a _chance_ to win this.

She looked across the amphitheater toward Her Divine Highness. From her place amid the Ninth, Harrow watched Her Divine Highness laugh and blush with the Seventh, plainly ogle the better half of the Third. She watched the Daughter of the Emperor Undying dance with the Second, her back straight and her face pleasant and engaged. She watched her shake hands too firmly with the Fourth (they buckled like she’d tried to break their arms). She talked at length with the Sixth and then slapped a hand against his back like they were old school buddies with a history of camaraderie and not an ounce of sexual tension--the Sixth necromancer seemed startled by the gesture. His cavalier narrowed her eyes. Harrow nibbled at a cracker--too salty--and watched Her Divine Highness listen patiently to the Eighth. When the Third passed by them and her eyes followed, when her body sagged in relief as she turned away from the Eighth, Aiglamene snorted and murmured, “Well, that answers that question.” 

It didn’t matter. Even with the Fourth, the Sixth, and the Eighth at an apparent disadvantage, even with the frankly shocking lack of effort from the Fifth, the Ninth would not compete. 

Harrow pulled her watch from her pocket, checked the time. How long was this supposed to last? Thus far, they’d stayed safely tucked in their secluded corner, far from the frivolity. If Harrow could avoid Her Divine Highness the rest of the evening, she would have no choice but to send Harrow home. How could she choose someone she had never met, someone with whom she’d never had even a scrap of a conversation?

Across the room, Her Divine Highness appeared cordial and formal, and every so often she broke into that smile that stretched wide across her face, lopsided and imperfect. When she smiled, Harrow found it almost impossible to look away...which was how Harrow ruined her own carefully laid plans. Her Divine Highness looked up at exactly the wrong moment and caught Harrow watching. That did the trick. It broke the spell. Harrow jerked her eyes away from the woman, then decided that wasn’t enough and turned her entire body away as well. She turned toward the wall and contemplated pressing her forehead against it, craved that grounding pressure.

“Stand up straight,” Aiglamene said. It was all the confirmation Harrow needed to know that _she_ was headed their way.

Harrow cleared her throat. “I need to attend to my bodily functions,” she said. She attempted to rush away before Aiglamene or Ortus could stop her, but Aiglamene was fast, even now. Her arm shot out and she caught Harrow around the chest. Harrow had no choice but to acquiesce and save face, or be dragged gracelessly back into position. Aiglamene had always had that streak of savage. Harrow assumed that that was why she was sent--to keep Harrow in line. 

Harrow bit her lip and adjusted her robes. The room pounded in her head and for a moment she felt like she couldn’t breathe, felt like she might collapse. A figure appeared before them, too bright in that white suit and Harrow felt herself sway, had to shut her eyes to gather herself.

“You’re here,” said an unfamiliar voice. And then: “Whoa, okay careful.”

Aiglamene wrapped an arm around her again, this time in an attempt to steady her. Ortus scratched furiously at his bit of flimsy. Around them the room roared and the light burned through her eyelids. 

“I have to get out of here,” Harrow said. She felt like she was choking, her chest tight and her heart racing. The hand around her waist was not digging sharp fingertips into her side, and as the realization dawned that this was not Aiglamene that steadied her, Harrow allowed herself a brief moment to think _objective achieved, terrible first impression complete_ before she forced herself to open her eyes.

Her Divine Highness was way too close, _blindingly_ close. This close Harrow could see the blemishes near her hairline, a streak of darker hair at her temple that faded into the red. It was her eyes though--her eyes were extraordinary, a rich yellow that Harrow had never encountered on the Ninth. She realized she was staring, blatantly staring with her mouth hanging open a little--if Her Divine Highness was truly brash she could simply lean in and--Harrow lowered her gaze and collected herself. Her traitorous throat emitted an embarrassing little yelp as the steadying arm fell away and Harrow was left to stand upright on her own two feet. 

“Sorry,” Her Divine Highness said. “I meant no harm.” She held up her hands toward Harrow’s cavalier, though Ortus’s fingers were still clutching his flimsy, the thought of going for his sword the furthest thing from his mind. 

“Your Highness,” Aiglamene said, and she bowed deep, the only one among them with both sense and decorum. “May I introduce you to Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House?”

“Reverend Daughter,” Her Divine Highness said with a small tilt to her head and that heartbreaker’s smile directed right at Harrow. “We’ve met, I think.” She winked. _Ridiculous._

“Have we?” Harrow asked, surprised into speaking. And then, because she couldn’t help herself: “Is there something in your eye?”

“No, I meant just now when you--nevermind.” The woman hooked a thumb toward the doors, her face scrunching up with self-deprecation. “Did you want to go get some air?”

“An excellent idea, Your Highness,” Aiglamene said at the same time Harrow turned up her nose and said, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

They stood like that for a moment, the words hanging in the air, no one quite sure what to do or say next. Behind Harrow, Ortus took furious notes. Her Divine Highness glanced back at him. “Hm.”

She turned her runny egg colored eyes back to Harrow. “If you don’t want to be seen walking out with me, I get it. What if you leave first and I’ll come find you on the terrace? You and your cavalier, I mean. Of course. Obviously.” She shrugged and then laughed. There was that neck again. “Shit, get a grip.” That part she said low, barely loud enough to hear. The three members of the Ninth ignored it. 

When Ortus didn’t respond right away, Harrow turned to glare at him. It was a glare that Ortus severely misinterpreted. He rushed to speak: “I know my Lady would prefer to conduct these introductions in a more private and tranquil sphere without her cavalier.” He shoved the flimsy back into his pocket, bowed, and added, “Your Divine Highness.”

Aiglamene nodded in agreement as though he’d said exactly what she’d hoped he would. That confirmed it. They were prepared to throw her to the wolves! They were in cahoots and had clearly been provided secret instructions. 

“I see,” Harrow said, glad that the paint obscured her burning face. “I will be on...the terrace then.” She had no idea what terrace they were referencing. The landing deck?

“Out the big doors and to the left,” Her Divine Highness instructed. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Harrow began to walk away, but paused, dismayed at how easily the First Reborn’s First Born fell into conversation with her cavalier and her captain. She felt a sudden stabbing fear, a realization that as soon as she left, all talk might turn to _her_.

“Nice sword,” Her Divine Highness said as she nodded to Aiglamene. “Badass leg.” She squinted. “Cohort?”

“A while back,” Aiglamene confirmed with a slight bow. She tapped her leg and Her Divine Highness looked unnecessarily impressed.

“Are those skeletons writhing on the hilt? I love the black.” And then the Ninth captain drew her sword, made her blade naked to Her Divine Highness. The woman did not look offended. Her face did not twist into the scowl of Marshal Crux. She looked delighted, awed even. She held out her hand. “It’s Gideon, by the way.”

Harrow turned on her heel and left.

**

The bench was pockmarked and corroded from the salt air, even this high up from the sea. Bits of rusted metal flaked off on Harrow’s hand. She wiped it away and checked her watch. Half an hour. Perhaps Her Divine Highness--Gideon--had forgotten. That would be all right. It was quiet here, the temperature was pleasant and the sky was full of stars. In the depths of Drearburh she rarely saw enough sky to see the stars. They were terrifying, unsettling and overwhelming, but terrifying, unsettling and overwhelming in an entirely different way than the crush of the ball, the scream of the instruments and the shouts of the revelers. Harrow slipped past two taped off barriers to get out here and the terrace was empty. Perhaps she was in the wrong place? That would be all right too. She could stay here while the ball continued on without her and no one could fault her for it. She’d done exactly as she was directed. She played entirely by the rules. She even accidentally swooned right into Her Divine Highness’s arms. Not even her parents could fault her performance there.

Her Divine Highness pushed out the doors to the terrace just after the forty minute mark. Harrow sighed, readied herself for her next performance, accidental or otherwise.

“There you are,” Her Divine Highness said. She seemed nervous, kept wiping the palms of her hands on her trousers. She stood in front of Harrow, towered over her, then seemed to think better of that and collapsed beside Harrow on the bench. Harrow drew her limbs in tight to her body and slid up against the rusting arm. 

“Sorry, I was--the Fifth are _really_ friendly.”

Harrow shrugged. “You’re forgiven, Your Highness. I was enjoying the solitude.”

“Gideon,” she countered. 

“All right, you’re forgiven, Gideon. I was enjoying the solitude.” She earned a smile for that. _Gideon_ clearly couldn’t take a hint. 

Gideon pushed a hand through her hair. 

“I was told the Ninth wouldn’t attend. Which isn’t--Shit, I fucked that up fast. What I meant to say was--Sorry, I’m terrible at this. Starting again. Reverend Daughter! I’m glad you’re here.”

“Are you?” Harrow asked, completely confused by this stumbling introduction. 

Gideon seemed slightly taken aback by the question. “Sure. I’ve never met a black vestal. The Cohort is full of the other Houses, so I see them once in a while, but not the Ninth. At least not anymore.”

Harrow wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She nodded her head in agreement.

“You didn’t think the Ninth would attend because I wrote a letter declining the invitation,” Harrow explained. “I was overruled, but the fact remains that I’m not here to be anyone’s bride--”(“They went with _broom_ , actually,” Gideon interjected. “Not my idea.”)--”The Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House is not for sale.”

Gideon nodded. “I actually thought I was the one up for sale here. At clearance prices, even.”

Harrow shook her head. “You’re deciding all of our fates. Why the game? You could make your choice tonight and release the rest of us. It hardly seems like a difficult decision.”

Gideon kicked the heel of her boot against the stone of the terrace. “Who do you think I should choose then?”

“The Crown Princess of Ida. There’s no competition.”

Gideon smiled, big and easy, and then was quiet for a long time. Her eyes still seemed bright, even in the dim light from the windows. She studied Harrow’s face, her eyes on Harrow’s pinned veil, her paint, her prayer bones. Harrow held her composure under that gaze for as long as she could manage. When she could no longer bear it she turned out toward the sea. 

“This wasn’t exactly my idea,” Gideon said. 

“Why did you agree to it?” 

Gideon reached for Harrow, a hand on her arm to draw her back in, and Harrow allowed it, shifted back so she could see the face of the woman beside her, that funny red hair. Did the Emperor have such a ludicrously colorful head?

“Look, I’m a fucking maiden locked in a tower. The only difference from the fairy stories of the Third is I get to have a fucking sword. A real sword, not this rapier. Literally no one here to fight except skeletons though,” Gideon shrugged. “This is a means to an end.” The first part of this sounded like nonsense, but the second half Harrow understood. She understood, also, that if her options in this life were marriage to Ortus or marriage to Gideon, a marriage to Gideon was the more amenable choice. If she was presented with this solution in the halls of Drearburh, perhaps she would actually consider it. Here though--she could not compete against the Third, nor the Second, nor the Seventh. She could not even compete against the Fourth, the Fifth, the Sixth or the Eighth. She would not debase herself by trying.

“If you have to play this game, if it’s simply a means to an end, then release me,” Harrow said, her words clipped, her head high. “Eliminate me first.” She understood that there were consolation prizes. Just by showing up she’d improved the fortunes of the Ninth. She had done her part. Fifteen resurrected and a shuttle of resources. No one could fault her. She was a black vestal, shrouded in secrets. She’d heard enough talk to know what was said of the Ninth here. They were cultists, traitors, mistakes. “You can’t choose the Ninth, so send me home.”

“You really want to leave?” Something about Gideon’s face was infuriating to Harrow all of a sudden. Maybe it was her youth--Harrow wasn’t used to youth besides her own. Maybe it was the crease above her eyebrows or the way the light from the windows caught on her hair. Harrow hated this, hated everything about it. She was out of place, in over her head. It was all so _stupid_ , so childish.

 _Yes_ , you yellow-eyed moron,” she snapped, unable to contain herself. “I want nothing to do with a marriage competition. It is beneath me and I will not sit by to serve as the butt of Third House jokes for the next eight weeks.” 

“Harrow, I--”

“Eliminate me now and spare me this torture!” She did not correct the presumed intimacy of being addressed as Harrow instead of her full name, instead of her title. Instead Harrow shifted from yelling to begging, and she hated herself for it. She went so far as to turn toward Gideon, to take both of Gideon’s hands in her own. They were cool and dry, and the press of those palms to hers was a relief, a release all on its own. “Your Highness, I _beg_ you.”

“Okay!” Gideon said. She shook her head, couldn’t seem to look at Harrow, but she held Harrow’s hands tight in hers, her knee on the bench between them, her leg pressed up against Harrow’s thigh. “Okay, I liked it better when you were insulting me. Yellow-eyed moron? Fuck, okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

She said it as though she wasn’t in charge, as though she didn’t hold all the cards, really couldn’t decide her own fate. She said it like she really was just some maiden locked in a tower. It didn’t matter. Harrow looked at the smooth lines of Gideon’s face, that perfect nose, that crooked mouth, and she took Gideon at her word, trusted that Gideon would follow through.

Her hands were still held tight in Gideon’s and Gideon leaned in, close beside Harrow’s ear. “Would you dance with me first?” Her voice was low, a secret--or perhaps simply an excuse to get close enough to smell the ash on Harrow’s veil, to see the mismatch stitching, to assess the Ninth and find her wanting. Harrow let Gideon take her in. _Go ahead, Highness. Find all the reasons you need._

Harrow exhaled and her breath shook in her chest. She pulled herself back into stiff defiance, felt all her pieces fall back into their natural order, their assigned place. She built herself up until she was sure hers was a defiance clear enough to be read through her paint. And then she pulled back just far enough to look Gideon in the eye. 

“I can’t dance,” she said. Harrow had spent months learning the steps with Ortus. She knew the dance card by heart. It didn’t matter. She could not dance with this woman. It would not help her cause. “You’d do better to ask someone else.”

Gideon did not try to lean in toward Harrow again. Instead she stood, straight and irritatingly tall. Her fingers fiddled with her sash as she shrugged. Her smile was crooked and sharp—sharp in teeth that emerged a bit crooked in spots, rather than in intent. It interested Harrow that those teeth hadn’t been fixed. Teeth were easy enough for even the very youngest bone adept. 

A maiden locked in a tower. It was interesting, Harrow had to admit.

“Me neither,” Gideon said. “Don’t tell anyone.” She held out her hand to Harrow. 

Harrow sucked her tongue, and looked away, her hands clenched tight into fists. It wasn’t that interesting. “You’ve been dancing all night. Everyone here knows how well you can dance.”

“You’ve been watching me.” Gideon seemed delighted by this. Her whole face lit up with it..

“ _Everyone_ is watching you.” Harrow’s voice burst out in a loud retort as her body exploded up from the bench. Standing, Harrow tugged at her veil, but she couldn’t work it free from its pins. The sharp points stabbed at her fingers and she stopped trying with a hiss. She wrapped her hands around herself instead, bowed her head in thanks, and started toward the door. As she passed Gideon, her eyes caught on something and she paused. “I will not dance with you, Your Divine Highness, but before we part, there is one thing you should know.”

Gideon looked down her shoulder at Harrow. “What’s that?”

Harrow returned to the bench, brushed her fingers across the metal. She stood straight and firm before Gideon, her face turned up to look Gideon in those bizarre yellow eyes. Harrow held up her hand, the pads of her fingers stained the brownish red of old blood. 

“You shouldn’t have sat beside me. You see, you’ve completely ruined your suit.”

**

Her Divine Highness did not return to the amphitheatre until it was time for the first key ceremony. The ball floundered without her as people milled about in confusion, unsure if something had happened, concerned that something had gone wrong. Aiglamene scowled and demanded to know what Harrow had done. Ortus made his round of the rooms, tasting what was left of the food and taking notes on the changing moods of each House delegation. When Gideon finally returned it was in a different suit (a striking black beneath a new pearlescent cloak) and with the funny little rainbow-sashed priest at her side. The priest had explained the rules of their game at the start of the evening, and now it was time to bring the night to a close. He held up a fistful of keyrings, a key dangling from each one. When he shook them the room erupted in applause at the clanging racket.

Harrow chewed her lip in nervous anticipation. She barely listened as the priest reiterated the ridiculous reason for the gathering, this farce that would stretch out across eight full weeks and end with someone marrying a woman they barely know, their House replenished and their future secure. By the time Gideon took center stage, Ortus was back at Harrow’s side, his paint smeared and his face anxious. 

Gideon began exactly as expected. “Third House!” she said. “Will you accept this key?” The more robust twin cried out and one beautiful hand flew up to cover her mouth. Her withered sister turned to beam at the Houses standing nearest, smug victory plain on her face. Behind them both their cavalier stood, his chest puffed, his head bobbing to confirm that it all went exactly as he expected. The Third took their time approaching the platform. The Crown Princess made it first. She pulled Gideon in for a hug, kissed both of Her Divine Highness’s cheeks. Gideon stumbled and laughed, eyes bright and cheeks lined with her smile. The crowd watched as the Third collected their key and returned to the crowd.

Gideon continued, each House called, one by one: Seventh was next and then Sixth--”Didn’t see that coming,” Aiglamene mused.--”and then Fifth and then Second. Next came the Eighth and Aiglamene huffed beside Harrow, cursed under her breath. Aiglamene had clearly assumed the Eighth would be the first to go. Only the Fourth and the Ninth Houses remained. 

Harrow let out a great sigh of relief, closed her eyes on the room and thanked the Emperor Undying for a Daughter so gracious. 

The room was quiet, waiting, and when Harrow opened her eyes she found that Gideon was looking right at her, staring at her from across the room. Oh no. No. You lying bitch. Don’t you fucking dare.

“Ninth House,” Gideon announced and Harrow stood there, frozen, her face red beneath her paint and her fists clenched at her sides. “Will you accept this key?”

“She will!” Ortus called out. Harrow felt smoke emit from her ears as she contemplated killing her cavalier right then and there. The party could use some worthwhile spectacle.

Gideon’s brow furrowed, but when Harrow did not move, did not speak, she took Ortus’s word, nodded once in their direction and then turned to the Fourth. “Right, okay. I’m sorry Fourth. Truth is you seem like great kids, better than I was at your age, but like, that’s just it, right? You’re kids-- _teens_ \--and I can’t--yeah, no, I’m sorry. Good luck out there!”

Harrow did not wait to see what came next. She grabbed Ortus by the arm and began dragging him toward the door. 

“My Lady--” 

“Let’s go before I sprout a full army from your panniers and tear down this entire room. You first.” 

On the platform beside the small priest, Gideon was still talking: “Jeannemary, I know I promised, and I almost always keep my word. I’ll let you touch my biceps before you go, okay?” The crowd laughed at that, the Crown Princess from the Third squawking loudly beside her drooping sister. Her Divine Highness, so witty, such charm!--”I’ll turn it back over to Teacher, who will--Reverend Daughter? Harrow, wait!”

 _I almost always keep my word._ Ha! Ha ha! Harrow ignored Gideon’s call. Aiglamene bellowed an embarrassing reprimand and still Harrow did not stop. She ditched Ortus by a sculpture of unidentifiable foods and made it all the way to the landing terrace before someone caught up. Harrow didn’t stop to see who it was. Of the three people who were inclined to follow her, it was easy to guess who was the fastest. She pulled six bits of metacarpal from her pocket and tossed them onto the stone. 

Behind her, Gideon let out a sharp cry, and by the time Harrow turned back to look at her, six skeletons stood between them. Two of them pressed hands to Gideon’s chest to hold her back.

“It was somewhat nice to meet you,” Harrow announced, her voice short, strained. “Good luck with the rest of the competition.” There was one shuttle at the edge of the terrace, undoubtedly waiting for the Fourth’s arrival. Harrow intended to be on it.

One of the skeleton’s hands slipped off Gideon’s shoulder and Harrow pulled it back with force, its hands slapping back in place. Not quite back in place. Instead of Gideon’s shoulder it grabbed Gideon’s right breast. Gideon pushed it away with a flustered shout. Her face warned Harrow that she was maybe twenty seconds away from drawing the rapier at her belt. All right, Her Divine Highness. Go ahead. We’ll have that dance after all.

She should have said that out loud. She didn’t.

“Look,” Gideon said. One hand was on her sword, but she did not draw. Her other hand she held up in half-surrender. “Look, I’ll send you home, I will. I promise that you don’t have to compete in anything. You can be the _worst_ contestant any of the Houses have ever seen and I swear on my life I will never make you marry me. At the end of this you can go back to the Ninth and marry whoever it was you left behind there--” _Ha! Ha ha!_ ”--The thing is talking to you today didn’t make me want to throw myself off this terrace, and there are a few other houses that did--not the Fourth, they're just awful teens, it’s not their fault. So I’m asking you to stay longer, just a few weeks at most, just until I get through the process of getting rid of those other guys.” 

Harrow considered this. “What does the Ninth gain from this arrangement?”

Gideon shook her head. “You know the rules. Each week you’re here, it’s another fifteen resurrected for the Ninth. I have nothing else to give, I can’t--wait.” She shoved her hand into her pocket and pulled out a keyring. “Your key.”

Fifteen resurrected per week? Harrow had been so blinded by hatred for the very concept of this event, that she’d missed this. The consolation prize was not a one time thing. It _grew_ the longer she was here. One more week and that was thirty souls for the Ninth. Two and she was up to forty-five. Three more weeks and it should be enough to appease her parents, to kick-start a (very small) generation. The boob-grabbing construct released Gideon. It grabbed the key and walked it over to Harrow, dropped it into her hand. “What does this unlock?”

Gideon shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “That’s part of the challenge.”

“You _just_ said I do not need to compete.” Harrow tossed the key onto the stones.

“Seriously?” Gideon asked, exasperated. “Harrow, I’m locked in a fucking tower, remember? No one tells me shit.”

Harrow considered the dark keyring, the single small key. “It’s probably something awful. Something like _the key to Her Divine Highness’s heart_.”

Gideon laughed at that. “More likely it’s some old books or a pile of dusty drapes or something. You know this place was once crawling with his Hands, right? I’m sure they left some necromantically juicy stuff behind, if you’re into that. I mean, that’s the kind of prize you necromancers are really after anyway, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” Harrow said. Though she was loathe to admit it, she was intrigued by the key. The promise of the resurrected sealed the deal. She shoved the key into her pocket. “A few weeks.”

“Just a few.” Gideon nodded toward the skeletons. “Now that we’re agreed, can I try my hand at fighting these?”

“What? No,” Harrow said, but when she saw the look of disappointment on Gideon’s face she amended that to “Later, I suppose. Maybe.” For now, she released her constructs, let them fall to heaps on the stones. She started back toward the door. Aiglamene and Ortus were there, swords drawn, ready to intervene and take out Harrow’s constructs themselves, no doubt. Traitors.

Harrow pushed past them into the corridor.

“Well?” Aiglamene asked. 

“Put those away,” Harrow directed. “We’re staying.”


	2. Trials and Tribulations

“Good morning!” The little priest said from one end of the large dining room. He’d directed them to call him Teacher, but Harrow had not yet seen evidence that he deserved the title. “Good morning to you all! We hope you have all settled in, that your quarters are satisfactory, that your rest was uninterrupted. It has been two long days since our commencement ball and we hope you have recovered from the festivities.” 

A smattering of laughter erupted throughout the room. The Fifth cavalier shook his head and bellowed, “Not yet, Teacher, not yet!” The laughter started again, though no one had said anything funny. 

“Two long days without Her Divine Highness in your midst!” the priest continued, and at her table Gideon groaned and shook her head, appropriately modest and ridiculously appealing. 

“Here here!” shouted the Third cavalier. His hair shook stiffly as he raised his cup of tea to signify a toast. His face was pinched tight and it was obvious to Harrow that he spoke up only because he couldn’t bear to be upstaged by the Fifth. 

This was an easy crowd. Another round of laughter, this time with applause.

Harrow turned to her own cavalier. Ortus, as usual, was using his knee as a not-so-discrete table as he scribbled away, documenting everything and everyone. Harrow was already dreading his next epic poem. _May the Best Broom Win,_ perhaps. _A Broom of One’s Own_. Ortus stopped when he felt Harrow watching, covered the flimsy with the palm of his hand. Write away, Ortus. It’ll keep your fool’s mouth shut. She looked to her captain instead. 

Aiglamene was smiling, but her mouth was tight, and Harrow took comfort in the fact that her captain was merely feigning amusement to appear polite. Aiglamene noticed Harrow and shook her head, forehead ridged. She nodded toward the next table. Yes, yes, Aiglamene wanted her looking at Her Divine Highness. Fine, all right. Harrow would look.

At first glance, Gideon’s winning smile looked completely genuine, but it was hard to say for sure. Harrow had met the woman only once, on a night when Her Divine Highness was expected to put her best foot forward. Perhaps all of her smiles were an act; maybe all of it was a complete façade. She remembered how Gideon had thrown her head back at a joke from the Fifth, the pinched half moons of her eyes and the bronze line of her neck. That had looked real enough. Harrow was fairly certain she was incapable of eliciting a laugh like that, even if she wanted to, which she certainly did not. She wasn’t here to make friends. She certainly wasn’t here to flirt. Let Gideon laugh with the Fifth. Gideon could marry them for all Harrow cared. Harrow would stick to the sidelines and count her resurrections. Fifteen souls a week, each day another two souls and some change. The Ninth would have children again. The Ninth would have _life_. Not a lot, but more than they had before. It would not make up for what Harrow’s birth had cost them, but it would have to be enough to lift some of that weight, to remove some of the burden.

Their eyes met. Gideon’s smile stretched wider and a small dent appeared in her right cheek. The fingers she’d been tapping against the table stilled. “Hi,” she mouthed, and her fingers fanned out in a subtle little wave. Harrow looked away. 

At least, this time, Gideon didn’t wink. It still felt a little too much like part of this whole charade. 

She felt another set of eyes, and looked toward her left to find the sad princess from the Third staring back. Unlike her sister, this princess looked every bit a necromancer. She didn’t react to being caught watching Harrow, just continued to stare, the fingers of her right hand pulling at a strand of pale hair. Harrow tried to remember her name. She’d pieced together as much as she could from the unsolicited letters she’d received over the years, not a single one of them ever answered. Tridentarius, Coronabeth and Ianthe. Which one was this? Harrow contemplated flipping her off, and felt the first small smile of the day tug at her lips. 

According to the teacher priest, this was the first time any of them had seen Her Divine Highness since the ball. It was certainly the first time that Harrow had seen Gideon, but she somehow doubted the accuracy of the statement. Some of these people were practically salivating trying to get at Her Divine Highness. They weren’t preoccupied by keys or the layout of Canaan House. Who knew what went on in the distant and convoluted corridors of the First? Still, it was intended that the last two days were spent getting to know one another. Mingle, get to know the House and your opponents, assess the playing field. Harrow managed to avoid them all, had witnessed nothing more than a chance encounter in a corridor, the sound of footsteps across an empty hall. 

She spent most of the first day mapping the entirety of Canaan House, each crumbling terrace, each twisting corridor. The priests and Her Divine Highness must live on the uppermost floors where the walls were a freshly painted white and all of the doors were locked. There were locked doors on the lower floors too. Gideon’s key didn’t open any of them. Harrow didn’t find a door that it _did_ unlock until well into that first day. 

“Now, to the first order of business,” said the rainbow-sashed priest. “Her Serene Highness has reviewed the surveys that were provided to each heir”--(“What survey?” Aiglamene asked. Ortus shrugged and Harrow ignored the question.)--”and together we have chosen three of you who will have the honor of competing in our first group date. You will join Her Highness Gideon amidst the verdant plants growing in our greenhouses for an afternoon picnic. Delightful!” 

“What survey?” Aiglamene asked again. She looked pointedly at Harrow.

“We’ll discuss it after this meeting is adjourned,” Harrow said, quietly. She found the survey slipped beneath their door, late into the first night while Aiglamene and Ortus slept, Ortus’s snores rocking their quarters and making sleep all but impossible for Harrow. She glanced at the contents and knew at once that she could not sit down and contemplate answers to questions such as _What was your first impression of Her Divine Highness?_ and _Where would you like to take Her Highness on a secluded one-on-one date?_ and even worse, _Describe your happiest memory._ She could not answer those questions and would not answer the simpler ones either: _What is your favorite color?_ and _If you were asked to prepare dinner for Her Divine Highness, what delicacies would your House present?_ The answers to those questions were easy, obvious. Black. Porridge and leeks. This entire game was designed to rule out the Ninth from the start! How many had bet on the Reverend Daughter’s elimination in the very first round? 

Harrow had, so that was one. How she’d beat out the youthful happy faces of the Fourth House was a complete mystery.

Harrow tore the survey into pieces and then burned those pieces on an empty terrace in the early hours of the morning. The smell of burning fat and plastic seared her nostrils as she stood beneath the stars. She watched the ashes float out over the water and disappear. 

“Second House, Third House, and Eighth House. You three are invited to join Her Divine Highness for an afternoon of merriment among the greens. Your Highness, what do you think of that?”

Gideon seemed surprised to be addressed, in fact had a mouth full of bread that she had to rush to swallow and when she spoke, her words were interrupted by the bread’s dry retaliation: “Sounds--” _hiccup!_ \--”great!”

It did not sound great.

“As for the rest of you, rest assured that there will be room enough for you at Her Divine Highness’s side, at least for the next few weeks! Tomorrow we will host an event that will afford you all the chance to participate, to impress Her Divine Highness with your skill.”

“It better not be a cavalier’s tournament,” Aiglamene muttered. 

Ortus looked up as though summoned. “Duel?”

“Water volleyball!” the priest announced. His tone had changed, the joy in his voice very obviously exaggerated. “We all love pool games, don’t we?”

Harrow did not. She’d have to disappear before dawn to escape this.

The solid Princess of Ida seemed delighted. She appeared to be the only one. Her sister went so far as to roll her eyes, long and slow, for all to see.

Across the table from the Ninth, the Second’s adept, Captain Deuterous, sat back in her chair and said, “Well, at least we’ll get to see Her Divine Highness in her bathing togs.” Her cavalier chuckled. Ortus scribbled furiously.

Were a few souls for the Ninth really worth all this?

Sadly, they were, and Harrow did not storm out of the room. She waited patiently for the morning meal to conclude and then she led her captain and cavalier into the corridor.

Aiglamene just barely waited until they were out of earshot of the other houses before she set a hand on Harrow’s arm and said, “What survey?”

Harrow chewed at her lip. “I threw it away. Her Divine Highness and I have an arrangement. I’m not required to participate in...group dates.” Thank the Emperor. It sounded like torture. 

Aiglamene’s face went red beneath her paint. “No, Reverend Daughter. That is not how this works.”

“Stand down, Captain. My parents aren’t here.”

“You will _compete_ , my Lady. You will do all that is asked of you here. You will do it for the good of the House and you’ll like it because it’s for the good of the House. That was the arrangement.”

Her tone was expectant and Harrow longed to pull skeletons up from Aiglamene’s naked toe bones, yearned to pummel her captain into the ground with constructs made from her own foot, but Aiglamene was so old. It wouldn’t be fair. Harrow pushed her hand into the pocket of her robe and closed them over the cold metal ring. The teeth of the key pressed sharp to her palm.

“A group date with the Second and Third, or the Third and the Eighth, or the Second and Eighth would not endear me to Her Divine Highness,” Harrow said. “It’s blatantly set up to seed dramatic rivalry between Houses. It doesn’t help the Ninth, and I can’t imagine it will be a deciding factor in who Gideon chooses to send home.”

Aiglamene’s eyebrows rose at that. Harrow wasn’t sure if it was because she’d crafted an exceedingly smart and logical rebuttal or if it was because she’d slipped and used Gideon’s first name. Either way, her captain was appeased. Mostly.

“Group dates aside, the survey likely contained information that would benefit the Ninth for Her Divine Highness to know.”

“Yes,” Harrow agreed. She gestured down toward her cloak. “You’re right. I’m sure Her Divine Highness would have a very difficult time guessing that my favorite color is black.”

**

The atrium above the hatch was mercifully empty and Harrow stepped carefully out of the shadows and down the stairs. She’d found the door two days prior, her heart pounding as she tried the key in the lock. It turned and Harrow felt a little thrill course through her. It turned again now, and that thrill was back for more. Harrow had to use all her strength to wrench the doors open, the screech of the metal echoing in the atrium. Harrow flinched and waited. There was no one there, no sounds of approach. She was still alone.

It had taken her awhile to ditch her cavalier and her captain. Luckily, they were both prone to polite pleasantries, and she was able to duck away when Magnus the Fifth stopped them for a chat. It helped that Aiglamene and Ortus were also very slow. Once she was able to get away, losing them in the maze of the First wasn’t difficult at all. Aiglamene was unlikely to attempt the crumbling terrace that had to be traversed to reach the atrium and Ortus was afraid of heights, a fact that did him no good on the Ninth or on the First. 

The hatch door opened onto a hole… a very deep hole with an access ladder fixed to one side. This surprised Harrow when she first opened this door. Honestly, she’d still half expected to open the door to find a full-size painting of Her Divine Highness flexing her arms surrounded by a series of heart-shaped plushies, one for each eligible heir!

The day she found the hatch, Harrow examined the ladder and found it in good condition. It was certainly stronger than many of the ladders and staircases in Drearburh. Now she removed her gloves to make sure her grip was sound, and stepped down. The metal was cold beneath her fingers. Her feet were unnecessarily loud on the rungs. It felt like a very long time before she reached the bottom and when she did, she looked around at the enormous metal laboratory. It looked just the same as it had yesterday and the day before that. She thought she must be the only one who’d been here in a myriad.

“Thank you, Gideon,” she breathed. She’d said this each time she’d descended into this space, and she needed to stop because she sounded ridiculous, but--and she was a little loath to admit this--she truly was thankful that she had not been sent home directly after the commencement ball, if only because it gave her these past few days in this space. Her Divine Highness was right. This was exactly the kind of prize a necromancer got excited over. 

Harrow started toward the corridor marked LABORATORY ONE-THREE. The last two days she’d been working in Laboratory Two, and she was anxious to resume her work there. Anticipation rose within her, warming her despite the chilly air. She was close to working it out. She could _feel_ she was close, she just needed to--

There was a shuffling sound in the corridor ahead, and then nothing, absolute silence--that particular absolute silence of people trying very hard not to be perceived. Harrow stood very still, her hand gripped tight around the prayer beads she wore twisted around her wrist. She waited for whoever it was to make the first move, to acknowledge that they’d been heard.

Nothing.

Harrow could ignore it. She could let them go about her business while she continued with hers. She could call out a greeting, but that would require her to transform into a friendlier and more trusting person than she was. Out of the question. Harrow had just decided to ignore them (there was plenty of space for two necromancers to gorge themselves on secrets down here) when a grey clad figure stepped into the corridor from Laboratory Three, hand on the rapier at her side. Harrow stilled.

The woman turned back toward the door and said, “It’s the Ninth, the Reverend Daughter alone. No sign of her cavalier.”

Harrow cursed herself for not dragging Ortus with her, but then, Ortus was not on her side. Ortus and Aiglamene could not know where she hid away and they must not know where to find her. They would gang up on her the moment she gave herself away. Then again, so might the Sixth.

The Sixth’s necromancer appeared at the door. “Reverend Daughter,” the Master Warden said, actually sounding pleased by the interruption.

Harrow did not want to sit through introductions. If Palamedes Sextus was anything like his letters, this would turn into a lengthy social call. If Harrow was interested in small talk, she would have stayed topside with the others while they expressed their breathless anticipation for Her Divine Highness half-dressed as she emerged dripping wet from a pool of water.

No, thank you.

Harrow contemplated walking away without a word. She’d ignored the Master Warden’s letters for more than a decade, it would be very much in character. The Sixth had already started their approach and she suspected that if she tried to walk away, they would simply follow. So she stayed, and when they were close enough that Harrow could see their faces--his bespeckled and gaunt, hers hard and sharp--Harrow said: “Why are you down here instead of up there with the rest of them?” 

“I could ask the same of you,” Sextus said. “For my part, I recognize a contest I can’t win when I see one. I’m determined to make the best use of my time while I’m here.”

“What makes you think you can’t win?” Harrow asked. In her estimation, the Sixth was a far better candidate than many of the others.

“The invitation might say _brooms_ ”--Harrow made an involuntary noise of disgust--”but _bride_ would have been the better word choice. The Sixth might have sent someone else, had we known.”

“Interesting.” It was nothing Aiglamene hadn’t guessed on the very first night. “Though she did choose the Eighth today.”

“Yes,” Sextus agreed. “We have our theories about that.”

Harrow did not care to know their theories. She pressed her lips tight and waited for the conversation to move on. Sextus mistook her silence for a request for more and tilted his head toward his cavalier. 

“Collecting fodder to justify sending him home,” Camilla the Sixth supplied. 

“That’s my theory,” Sextus agreed.

“I don’t see why she needs justification,” Harrow said. “She holds the power here.”

“The Eighth might disagree.”

“My theory is that maybe she likes him,” the Sixth cavalier said.

Sextus snorted, and despite his cavalier’s straightforward tone, Harrow assumed it was some sort of joke between them. She moved on.

“How long have you been down here?” 

The Sixth conversed silently, a series of arched eyebrows and mouth twitches, until finally Sextus said, “Two days.”

Harrow cursed herself for assuming she’d been alone. “Oh?”

“You found the hatch before us,” Sextus clarified, “but I suspect we were only a few hours behind.”

These two were good then, good and very quiet. Quiet enough that they knew of Harrow’s presence before Harrow detected theirs. Harrow hated that. She clutched her hand tight on the bone beads and savored the sharp press of them against her palm.

“You know what this is,” Sextus said. It wasn’t a question. “Each laboratory houses a test designed to master a complex theorem. It’s--”

“His Lyctor trials,” Harrow supplied, following his lead to the most obvious conclusion.

Sextus smiled and adjusted his glasses. “You read my letters.”

“I did.”

“You never responded.”

“Of course not. Why would I?” She looked past the Sixth, down the corridor toward Laboratory Three. She’d been so caught up in Laboratory Two, she hadn’t yet made it down to Three. She wondered what sort of test it might contain. She was not about to ask that and settled on a different question instead. “Why give us a key to these laboratories? Does he intend for Her Highness to marry a Lyctor?”

“Perhaps,” Sextus said. “Or maybe he’s hoping he’ll find a match for his daughter and gain a few new Lyctors in the process. A two for one deal.”

“None of this makes sense. It would actually be a comfort to think that the entire point of this ridiculous marriage charade is to replenish his Lyctors, but why all of this frippery? Why use his daughter as a pawn?” She knew that Gideon claimed none of this was her idea, but that wasn’t her information to offer here. She cut herself off before she let it slip.

“I don’t know,” Sextus said. He looked around at their surroundings. “The Sixth understands the necessity of going outside your House to find a suitable partner, but this still doesn’t sit right.”

“No,” Harrow agreed. They both turned toward different laboratories, anxious to get back to their studies.

“Warden,” Camilla the Sixth said, exactly on queue.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, we’d better get back to it. Reverend Daughter, it’s been a pleasure.”

Harrow did not want to lie, so she simply nodded her head toward the Sixth before she turned and walked in the opposite direction. She waited until they disappeared back into Laboratory Three before she pushed through the door marked _#1-2. TRANSFERENCE/WINNOWING. DATACENTER_. Harrow checked her bone wards and then moved immediately to the pedestal at the center of the room labelled RESPONSE. It was time to get back to work.

** 

Dominicus had disappeared below the horizon by the time that Harrow stumbled upon God’s Single-and-Ready-to-Mingle Spawn in a corridor not far from the Ninth’s rooms. Gideon was deep in conversation with Captain Deuteros and the Second cavalier. She had an enormous sword strapped to her back and the hair at the nape of her neck was damp with sweat. The side of her body was pressed casually against the wall, her head tipped so that her temple rested against the peeling wallpaper. The Second, in contrast, stood at attention, spines straight, hands folded behind them, rapiers at their sides. Their faces were just a bit shiny, and Harrow assumed that wherever Gideon had been before this, the Second had been there with her. 

Harrow froze as soon as she caught sight of the trio, her mind working desperately to map another route back to her rooms. She pressed her fingers to her nose and they came away red. Her whole face was streaked and dripping from her efforts in Laboratory Two and she wanted nothing more than to take care of the blood and collapse into her bed for a few hours, just long enough to get up and get out again before anyone (read: Aiglamene) tried to drag her to a pool party. Harrow would jump off a terrace before she donned a bathing suit. 

There was no way to bypass them. The three women stood at an intersection that Harrow must pass to get where she needed to go, which could only mean that Gideon had planned their position. She’d stopped them in this location on purpose to put herself in a place where she knew she would eventually encounter Harrow, but the plan only worked if Harrow chose to return to her rooms. The library had been blessedly empty since they arrived, with big long tables and thick cushioned chairs. Harrow could doze there. It would ensure that she was out of reach of her captain and her cavalier come morning. She could-- 

“Reverend Daughter!” Gideon burst out, and Harrow cursed aloud. She’d lingered too long and the Second had seen her and given her away. 

Harrow wiped blood from beneath her nose, took a deep breath, and came forward with her head high. She could feel the blood oozing from her ears. This she ignored. There was no dignified way to drain puddles of blood from one's ears with company present. 

The Second hung back as Gideon approached Harrow with that wide crooked smile. The smile fell just a bit as she got close enough to see Harrow’s face. Harrow sighed as Gideon waved off the Second (they turned and left without another word) and then continued toward Harrow with caution, hands out like she wanted to hold Harrow by the arms but knew better than to actually try. 

“What happened to you?” Gideon asked, eyes rich with concern, the smile all but gone. “You look like shit, like someone tried to put your face through a meat grinder. No offense.” 

“None taken.” Harrow sniffed, felt blood suck back up her left nostril. She managed not to cough. She did not feel offended, that much was true. Being told she looked like shit, like she’d been pushed through a meat grinder, was far preferable to--well, to just about anything else Gideon might have decided to say about her appearance. _Like shit_ meant that things were going according to plan. _Like shit_ meant that Harrow would have another few weeks to work through the trials in the basement and then she’d be released to return to the Ninth with just enough souls to kick-start a generation. _Like shit_ was precisely the impression Harrow intended to make. 

Gideon was staring at the blood dripping from Harrow’s right ear. Harrow resisted the urge to hide it by covering the ear with a cupped hand. She cleared her throat and felt blood there too. 

“Do you need me to kick their ass for you?” 

Harrow swallowed. Gideon’s forehead glistened with sweat and Harrow could smell it. She needed a sip of water. “No, I--” she fumbled in her pocket and held up her key ring. “I’ve been testing a new theorem.” It was close enough to the truth. 

“Oh,” Gideon straightened up at that and the air returned to the corridor. Harrow took a deep breath, but still felt a little like she was drowning. “Right, sorry, I forgot that happens with the blood. I spend a lot of time around--.” 

“Lyctors.” Of course. Gideon spent a lot of time around Lyctors, who logically held onto their blood far better than a lowly necromantic heir. 

"--skeletons.” Gideon finished. “You’ve probably noticed. This whole place is stuffed with priests and skeletons, but mostly the skeletons.” She stopped and only then seemed to register what Harrow had interjected. “Lyctors? You’d think, but no, I haven’t seen one of his Hands since I was a kid. Anyway, I was waiting for you.” 

“Why?” 

Gideon shrugged. “Because I haven’t seen you in days.” 

“You just saw me at breakfast, but that wasn’t what I meant. Why haven’t you seen a Lyctor since you were a child?” 

“They’re like--I’m not actually really sure what happened there, but something went down. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” 

Of course it mattered. She felt her heart speed up, just slightly. “Are we here because he needs new Hands? This whole game is just to test us, and the keys point to the truth?” 

Gideon paused. “Huh,” she said. “I don’t think so, but what do I know?” 

“You must have _some_ idea.” 

“Sure. I think you’re here because he’s sick of listening to me complain about how this House is falling apart and he decided he’d win some points with the Nine Houses by marrying me off so whoever wins can have bragging rights, and oh hey, bonus! Now I’m someone else’s problem. I mean, I don’t _know_. That’s just the impression I get. You know, like you’re eighteen now, get out of my House, that kind of thing.” 

Harrow wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she said nothing and Gideon continued: “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you didn’t regret staying. I’m guessing based on”--here Gideon waved a hand in the general direction of Harrow’s bloody face--”all this, that you don’t?” 

Harrow recalled her breathless _thank you, Gideon_ each time she stepped off the ladder and felt the chill of the facility’s air on her cheeks. “You were right about the key.” 

“Dusty old drapes?” 

“No, actually,” Harrow said. “Much better. Dusty old drapes might get the Sixth’s blood flowing, but there isn’t much there for a bone adept.” The corner of her mouth twitched and threatened to smile. She reigned it back in, but Gideon was watching. She caught the twitch, and her eyes got a little brighter, shining like gold coins. She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded down at Harrow. 

“So old bones then,” Gideon concluded, also wrong. “They really got your blood flowing? Old dead stuff really is the key to the Reverend Daughter’s heart?” 

Gideon’s expression made it very clear that she was joking with Harrow, but Harrow felt her body flood with sudden cold anyway, her limbs stiff, her face shuttered. Her Divine Highness was not Harrow’s friend, nor was she Harrow’s ally. She was a means to an end, that was all. Nothing here could involve either of their hearts, nor would flowing blood be discussed again. 

Gideon saw the change and her smile faltered. She nodded again, bit her lip, and soldiered on. “You want to hear about the picnic?” 

“Not particularly, I have to--” 

“--You didn’t fill out the survey.” Gideon said this in a rush, like it was essential that she said it there in the corridor at that exact moment, before any more time had passed. It was obviously the reason she’d been waiting to catch Harrow, the entire point of the conversation. 

The blood was drying on Harrow’s face and her skin, already stiff with the paint of her skull, itched with it. “The deal was that I do not have to compete.” 

“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to do anything, but it would have been a better day--a more interesting day, if--actually, it depends on who you replaced. The Eighth _really_ doesn’t like the Ninth.” 

“No,” Harrow agreed. “They wouldn’t, would they? I take it the Second House fared well?” They seemed to be faring well when Harrow arrived on the scene. Captain Deuteros looked capable. She could probably handle a sword as well as any cavalier. Harrow didn’t know much about Her Divine Highness, but what little she did know suggested _can handle a sword_ landed someone on Gideon’s hot list. She really should be in the Cohort and not trying to pick and choose her way through eight necromancers, most of whom could not hold a sword for more than a few minutes without their arms aching for days. 

Gideon turned back toward the now empty corridor. “Sure. Captain Deuteros is impressive.” She held an arm out to Harrow. Harrow stared at it, unsure what Gideon expected her to do. 

“I’ll walk you to your rooms?” Gideon asked. “Unless you want to go somewhere else.” This again, sounded like it might be a joke, or worse, innuendo. Harrow ignored it. 

“I know the way.” 

Gideon dropped her arm. She ran a hand through her damp hair, and then she sighed and said, “You really don’t like me.” 

This startled Harrow. “I like you just fine.”

“Really?” Gideon asked. “Because Lieutenant Dyas said you looked upset, like you saw us and were preparing to bolt.” 

Harrow tried to control her face, tried not to look at Gideon as though Gideon was a blind moron, but she was almost certain she failed. “You’re the Emperor’s most treasured progeny, the First Daughter of the First House, and I’m standing here dripping with my own blood. Of course I intended to bolt.” She started walking toward her rooms, though in truth, the library really did seem like the better option. 

Gideon fell into step beside Harrow, catching up easily. “That’s fair. I’m sorry for being weird about it. I guess I just thought, with the competition out of the way, we might at least be friends.” 

Harrow snorted at that, choked a little on a glob of blood. “I don’t have friends, your Highness.” 

“Me neither." 

Harrow paused. “It’s really just you and those little priests here?” 

“Don’t forget the skeletons.” 

“Why?" 

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Gideon admitted. “No one really knew what to do with me? They didn’t like having a kid underfoot. I don’t know.” They were standing outside the door to Harrow’s rooms. Gideon looked at the bones that adorned the walls and ceiling surrounding the door. “Nice. On brand.” 

When Harrow didn’t respond (because she couldn’t think of anything to say except _shut up_ and _You’re the Emperor’s daughter and no one knew what to do with you?_ and neither seemed an appropriate response to the First Reborn’s First Born), Gideon pressed her lips tight. Her fingers fiddled with the straps that held her ridiculously huge sword. They stood there for a moment. It was awkward. Eventually Gideon said, “Will I see you in the pool tomorrow?” 

Harrow laughed--actually laughed--before she caught herself, her hand over her mouth. “Absolutely not,” she said. “No offense. These challenges have nothing to do with necromancy.” 

“Nah, why would they?” 

“You _are_ looking to marry a necromancer, aren’t you?” Harrow asked. “Judging a necromancer based on their skill at water volleyball is laughable.” 

“I wasn’t going to judge anyone based on their skill at water volleyball. We’re just getting to know each other. Anyway, I’m expecting it’ll mostly be the cavaliers playing, so you can just watch and laugh at us if you want. It’ll be fun. I hope it’ll be fun.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

"Okay, hey, so how about this. At the ball you said I could fight some of your constructs. How about tomorrow morning? We can meet in the training room. Or somewhere else. Anywhere, really, your choice.” 

The training room was right next to the pool, which made it all sound like a blatant trap. 

“No.” 

Gideon groaned. “Come on, at least think about it a little. I’ll get up early for you. I’ll be there at seven. Meet me there or don’t. I won’t hold it against you.” 

“I won’t be there,” Harrow warned, because there was no point in pretending otherwise. Let Gideon sleep in. “And you’re more than welcome to hold it against me.” 

Gideon laughed at that, as though Harrow meant it as a joke. This entire House was full of the easily amused. 

“Good night,” Gideon said. She held out her hand for Harrow’s. Without thinking, Harrow set her gloved fingers in Gideon’s hand. She let Gideon lift her hand and then, realizing that Gideon intended to put her _mouth_ on Harrow’s soiled and bloody glove, Harrow yanked it away. Gideon startled and stepped back. She opened her mouth to say something, but Harrow cut her off. 

“Good night, your Highness.” 

Harrow pushed into her rooms and shut the door in Her Divine Highness’s face. 

** 

Harrow was true to her word. When her watch ticked over to seven o’clock Harrow was as far from the training room as she could get. She was already in Laboratory Two, had been for hours, standing at the controls while construct after construct was destroyed by an unknowable, unseeable force. By ten o-clock she knew that she was going to get nowhere without a second person to act as her eyes. She needed her cavalier, but didn’t dare go to fetch him. 

By one in the afternoon Harrow was exhausted, bloody and spent. She checked her wards and then curled up in the corner of the laboratory and took a nap. When she woke up, it was to a stomach that rumbled in outraged protest, to a dry mouth desperate for a drink, and with a face sticky and stiff with a crust of blood. She hated to give in to the demands of her traitorous body, but there was no question that she needed to eat and she needed something to drink. She would not be able to continue without first tending to her body’s extremely annoying demands. 

She was careful on the ladder. She took each step slowly, carefully, stopped when she felt dizzy, her arms wrapped tight around the rungs. The last thing she wanted was to fall off this ladder and turn a party into a funeral. Would the Ninth still get the souls she’d earned if she died? Was there a soul bonus for a dead heir? 

Tomorrow she would be better prepared. Tomorrow she would bring food, a canteen of water and a cloth to wipe her face. It was stupid having to return to the world above to attend to these things when it could so easily be avoided. She should bring a blanket too and then she’d be ready to avoid returning to her rooms for a few days, at least. 

Harrow crossed the crumbling terrace and re-entered the tower, climbing the stairs toward the upper levels. As she traversed the corridors toward the kitchen, she heard water and laughter, smelled the salt of the sea in the air, and by the time she registered what was happening and where she was, she was standing before the open doors to the large hall that housed the swimming pool. She’d walked by the pool before. The area was usually occupied by one or two people. The Third swimming laps or the Second sparring in the attached training area. 

This was more than two people. The pool was absolutely packed, body’s writhing in the water, people laughing, so many exposed teeth. Naberius the Third bounced a ball off his fists and Harrow felt dizzy as she realized what it was that she’d stumbled upon. 

Water volleyball. The horrid pool party. 

She scanned the room for her cavalier and found him in the water, laughing with the Seventh and Fifth cavaliers. Had she ever seen Ortus laugh before? It made him look very young. His smile was actually rather beautiful and Harrow lingered, watching him fight the Fifth when the Fifth wrapped an arm around his neck and dunked him beneath the surface. 

If Ortus was there, then so was Aiglamene, and Harrow moved closer to the cover afforded by the edge of the door before searching out her captain. Aiglamene was sitting on a bench against the wall. She was decked out in her Ninth blacks, her skeletal leg exposed, her sword at her side. She wore the same polite smile that she wore each morning at breakfast, tight and forced, but perhaps not visibly so if one hadn’t known her their entire life. 

Harrow’s stomach protested. She needed to move before she was witnessed by her cavalier or worse, by her captain, but her eyes found Gideon and she stayed where she was. Gideon was laughing too, wet hair the color of blood. Her bathing suit was black and sleeveless, and she ran her hands over her arms as though she was cold, though no one else seemed chilled and Gideon hardly seemed the type to feel self conscious. She had no reason to be, from what Harrow could see of her. Her arms were as toned as Harrow had imagined they would be when she first saw Her Divine Highness in that white suit at the ball. It wasn’t all from hefting around that great big sword. Gideon clearly worked hard to build the muscle she had. Either that or it was some genetic benefit of being the daughter of God. 

The solid twin--Coronabeth, Harrow had learned--moved in toward Gideon and whispered something in her ear. No friends, my ass, Harrow thought. Together these two were _golden_ , a perfect picture of good breeding and glowing health. It was disgusting, all of it so pointless. It was honestly hilarious, this swimming pool full of cavaliers, the only necromancers in the water Coronabeth Tridentarius and Captain Deuteros. Deuteros looked like she was having less fun than the Third, though Harrow guessed that was a very recent development, starting probably around the time Princess Corona laid a perfectly manicured hand on Her Divine Highness’s arm. The Third and the Second were nothing alike. Harrow could see why the way Gideon smiled at Corona might seed doubt within the Second. 

It was easy to imagine this contest coming down to these two women, Judith with her sword and her crisp uniforms, her Cohort training, a quality that was clearly attractive to Her Divine Highness, versus Coronabeth with that shine, those breasts and that hair, with glittering wealth and social connections. It didn’t matter. Harrow would be long gone by the time it came time for those two to duke it out. 

Group date: Necromancers wrestling for Her Divine Highness’s hand. 

If Harrow wasn’t careful, she might make herself laugh. 

She realized she was still standing there, completely lost in thought, and when she regained her focus, she found that Gideon was pulling herself up and out of the pool. Everyone was quiet, watching the woman’s arms, the stretch of brown skin that appeared between the hem of the fitted tank and the waistband of her shorts. All that before her thighs even made their first appearance and when they did there was an audible gasp from somewhere in the room. Was that the Seventh? Whoever it was embarrassing themselves, it was the push Harrow needed. It was well past time for Harrow to make a hasty retreat. 

She turned back the way she’d come and took a different route to the kitchen. She huddled at a table in the corner of the dining room, a watered down bowl of green broth clutched between her hands when Her Divine Highness appeared, barefoot and with a towel wrapped around her waist, but still dripping from the pool. Harrow froze, hoped that Gideon was here for refreshments or something and not because she was following Harrow, but Gideon walked straight to Harrow’s table and sat down opposite. 

“Hey,” Gideon said. She reached for a plate of cheese that a skeleton had set down beside Harrow without being asked. She took a piece and popped it into her mouth. Harrow had no plans to eat the cheese. She pushed the entire plate closer to Gideon. “Still working on that theorem?” 

“What gave it away?” Harrow asked. She’d dabbed at her face as best she could without removing any more of her paint and the napkin beside her was splotched with red and a spectrum of grays. 

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind.” 

“I haven’t,” Harrow said. She gestured to her face, then down at her robes. She’d been sipping the broth straight from the bowl, but now that she had company she switched to a spoon. She should have just added the soup to her cup of water instead of the water to the soup. Sipping a cup of luke-warm watery soup seemed a little less barbaric than sipping a bowl of luke-warm watery soup using both hands. She set the spoon down and decided to just wait it out. The soup wasn’t hot anymore anyway and Gideon would have to get back to her party before too long. 

“I’m starting to think you’re down there having exotic bloodletting parties with the Sixth and half the Third.” 

Harrow hadn’t seen the Sixth since the previous day, but she wasn’t surprised to hear that they hadn’t made an appearance at the pool. “Half the Third?” 

“Yeah, Ianthe also skipped the pool and the picnic. I think maybe it’s a sister thing? They don’t want to compete with each other or something.” Gideon shrugged. 

“I haven’t seen her,” Harrow said. She didn’t like the idea of another very quiet necromancer lurking in the basement undetected. 

Gideon ate another piece of cheese. Harrow could hear the water dripping from Gideon onto the floor. Sitting at the table Gideon was all exposed arms, long neck, blood-dark hair and blazing eyes. “Maybe she just stays in her room then, I don’t know. You weren’t in the training room this morning." 

Harrow paused at that. “I told you I wouldn’t be there. Why the hell did you wait?” 

“You might have changed your mind.” 

Gideon’s shoulders were covered in freckles, just a shade or two darker than her skin. The freckles were spattered across her chest as well, and something about the constellations of marks infuriated Harrow, angered her toward Gideon so that when she spoke again, her voice was sharp, the irritation audible and her words unfiltered: “I’m not going to change my mind, you clueless idiot.” 

Gideon was clearly thick if she couldn’t understand that Harrow was not interested in any of this, that she was here for two reasons and two reasons only: to acquire enough souls to pay a fraction of the debt she to her House, to give the Ninth a small amount of hope, and if she’s lucky, enough time in the basement to work through a few of the tests there, to get some idea of what it was that the Emperor’s Lyctors left behind. 

Gideon sat back, her hands held up in surrender, her biceps bulging prominently. She whistled, but voiced no rebuttal other than that. She didn’t have to, Harrow already felt like enough of an ass. Harrow opened her mouth to speak, but Gideon beat her to it. 

“Don’t apologize,” Gideon said. Her voice was low, quiet, and Harrow felt the words curl and twist in her gut. Gideon stood and leaned toward Harrow, one knee on a chair, forearms pressed to the table and the neckline of her bathing suit gaping just enough to see the slight swell at the tops of small breasts. Harrow realized that she was holding her breath. “Call me all the names you want, Harrow. I’m not offended.” 

"Gideon." 

Gideon smiled at that. She tilted her head, inviting Harrow closer, as though she had a secret and she was ready to share. Harrow wanted to refuse, felt certain that as soon as she came close Gideon would retaliate, would spew vile filth designed to rival Harrow’s most heinous thoughts. Despite this, she found that she was rising from her chair. She leaned in toward Gideon, her robe dangerously close to dragging in her soup. 

When Harrow was close enough, Gideon spoke in a low whisper meant for Harrow and Harrow alone: “I have an idea. It’s a good one and I think it’ll change your mind.” 

Harrow sighed and sat back in her seat, whatever spell that Gideon had tried to cast broken. “I very much doubt that, but go ahead and try me. What’s this irresistibly genius idea?” 

Gideon sucked at her teeth. She stood up to her full height and looked back over her shoulder at the empty dining room. There was no one there, but Gideon shook her head and said, "Not here. I have to get back." 

Harrow narrowed her eyes. “I’m not following you back to that pool if that’s what you’re thinking.” 

“I might be an idiot, but I’m not that much of an idiot,” Gideon said. “I couldn’t tell you there anyway. Too many people and it’s not an idea that’s meant to be shared.” 

“You’re playing with me,” Harrow accused. 

“A little, but look, I’ve still got a few more Houses to eliminate before I get to you, just like we agreed, all right? I might as well keep things interesting for you in the meantime.” 

“I don’t want things to be _interesting_ ,” Harrow protested. Gideon responded with a wink, just like she had that night at the ball. Harrow bristled. “You’re an arrogant ass.” 

Gideon laughed at that, looked absolutely delighted by Harrow’s assessment. 

Harrow continued: “You made me believe you were participating in this against your will, but look at you. You’re a strutting peacock. You’re _loving_ this.” 

And there Gideon went again, a flash of misaligned teeth in a beautifully asymmetric smile, and when Gideon made it to the doorway she stopped long enough to bow to Harrow, one hand folded in front of her, the other behind, and then she disappeared, her bare feet loud against the floor as she ran back toward the pool. 

** 

“If we’re eliminated today,” Aiglamene warned. She was already shaking her head, so sure that this was it for them, that Harrow had hidden away an entire week and Her Divine Highness would have no choice but to send the Ninth home. 

“We won’t be eliminated,” Harrow assured her captain. Ortus was standing at attention, exactly one step behind Harrow. He was not in the mood for writing. Instead he stood with worried eyes, his teeth working bits of skin from his bottom lip. Harrow remembered how delighted he’d seemed in that pool and regretted that she’d left him so unsure of their position now, but if they just listened to her, they’d understand. “I told you, we have an arrangement.” 

“Surely, any arrangement that you thought you had with Her Divine Highness was predicated on a modicum of participation. A mere ounce of interest, my Lady, but you could not bring yourself to endure even something so small for the good of your House.” 

“You forget your place, Captain,” Harrow warned. “You have no idea what I would do for my House.” 

“Fill out a survey, sit on the sidelines of a pool. It’s really very little that the First asks of you. Ortus had a very good time.” 

“I did, actually,” Ortus agreed. 

“Good for Ortus. Perhaps his good time will save the Ninth.” 

They were back in the amphitheater, though their numbers had dwindled considerably. It appeared that several of the houses had sent their sizable contingencies home after the ball, keeping only their cavaliers and a few retainers on the First with them. The Third had dressed for the occasion, both sisters and their cavalier resplendent in lavender and gold. The Seventh lounged in seafoam green and the Cohort soldiers looked as buttoned up as ever, hands on their rapiers and backs straight. Harrow did not dress up for the occasion, but her face was clear of blood, which was a considerable step up from the rest of her meetings with her Divine Highness throughout that week. It would have to do. 

After an unnecessarily long wait, Gideon appeared on the small stage beside the little priest. She was back in her white suit, as though all of this pomp and fanfare really mattered. They could have conducted this ceremony in the dining room. There was no reason to gather them all here. 

The priest prattled on for much longer than anyone cared to listen, but eventually Gideon stepped forward, another set of keys in her hand, white this time, and Harrow felt her heart jump at the sight of them. She turned to her right, searched for Palamedes Sextus in the crowd. She found him and his cavalier standing beside the Seventh. He stood exactly as she expected, eyes on the keys and nothing else, mouth set in a thin line. 

Gideon called the Second House first. Deuteros was all stiff business as she stepped forward to take her key, but when she turned back to the crowd she was smiling, and for the first time Harrow realized that she was beautiful. 

Gideon waited for the Second to get back to her place and then she held up the second key. “Ninth House!” 

“What?” Harrow said, before she could stop herself. Aiglamene nudged her forward and Harrow stumbled, her cavalier close at her side as she stepped to the front to accept the key from Gideon’s hand. Gideon’s eyes burned into her and Harrow felt flushed, had to turn away and stumble back. The Third whispered to each other as Harrow passed, their eyes hard as jewels. The Third had nothing to worry about. Their House was called as soon as Harrow was back in place. 

She’d been called _second_. She spent the entire week doing her best to avoid Gideon, giving the little priest’s events the most minimal attention she could manage. She’d snapped at Gideon, called her an idiot, labelled her an ass. She’d stalked the halls dripping with her own blood. Was this Gideon’s bright idea? Did she really think calling Harrow _second_ would warm Harrow’s heart? Harrow refused to look at the others in the room. She refused to look at their faces, at their surprise that the Ninth had risen the ranks to _second_ in one short week. 

They waited as the other Houses were called, one by one, until finally it was only the Eighth left standing. This conclusion was unsurprising, uninspired and obvious. In fact, the only real surprise of the evening was that the Ninth House had jumped from last chosen to second place, ahead of the winsome princess from the Third. The others all glanced her way, eyes pausing just long enough to take her in, to size her up, before moving on lest they be caught. Harrow unpinned her veil. When Aiglamene tried to stop her, Harrow slapped her hand away, a child’s fit, embarrassing but necessary. The veil fell over her eyes and the world settled, the frantic beating of her heart slowed to a more manageable gallop. 

“Well done, my Lady,” said Aiglamene. 

“Thank the Emperor,” said Ortus. 

“What the _fuck_ ," said Harrow. 


	3. Gideon's Great Idea

She arrived at the locked door at precisely the same moment as the Sixth House.

“Congratulations,” Sextus said. He stood beside her as she tried her key in the lock, certain that it would turn. “That was quite the jump in standing within a single week.”

The key missed the hole and slid across the metal panel with a shriek that made them all wince. Camilla the Sixth took a step closer to her necromancer, as though Harrow’s fumbling hands might present some type of threat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harrow said. Her face felt hot, her words sounded words pinched. The last thing she wanted to do was to discuss the key ceremony with the Sixth. It was bad enough that she had to share this moment of discovery without having to relive that evening as well, the eyes of the other houses, the whispers.

“Guess she didn’t like the Eighth after all,” Camilla the Sixth said from behind them. Palamedes smiled. Harrow did not. The key slid into the keyhole and turned with a satisfying click, a mechanical shift that resonated through her hand and sent a little shiver of anticipation up her arm. 

The Sixth and the Ninth stood in front of the open doorway for a moment. Harrow and Palamedes stepped forward at the same time, and then stopped, neither of them willing to cede their claim. Eventually they stepped forward together, just barely fit through the door side-by-side, their robes brushing as they slid past. The Sixth cavalier stepped in behind them and turned on the light.

“I think we’re the first,” Harrow said, low and quiet. The illuminated room appeared to be a very tidy study done up in various shades of white and beige. Camilla started toward the far end of the room, which had been arranged into some semblance of a living space, two narrow beds, a wardrobe, a pair of carefully placed shoes with short heels. Harrow turned in the other direction, toward a desk of neatly stacked papers. 

Palamedes stood by another desk. He leaned over it, his hands behind his back. 

“Damn,” he said. “Siphoning. Of course.”

“Eighth House?” Harrow asked, pulling the pieces together. She moved to stand beside Sextus, pushed his robe aside to get a better look. 

“Hm,” Sextus said. He was staring down at an intricate theorem scrawled in a very neat but extremely tense hand. “You saw the siphoning challenge in the laboratory downstairs?” 

“I did,” Harrow said. She’d dismissed it immediately. It was obvious that Harrow could not complete the challenge on her own and she had no interest in spending more time than necessary with her cavalier. Ortus was in high spirits following the key ceremony. He’d asked her if she wanted to hear an excerpt from the epic love poem he’d started just that morning. Excruciating. Harrow had not responded. She merely held up the key and walked away.

“Did you attempt it?” Harrow asked. She pulled her book and her pen from the pocket inside her robe and stabbed the inside of her cheek with the pen tip.

“Of course not,” Sextus said. He sounded just slightly indignant. He did not look at her when he said, “Did you?”

“No,” she said around the familiar taste of blood. She did not elaborate, though the reason had to be plain enough to even the most casual observer. She had yet to encounter Sextus while in the company of her own cavalier. 

They were silent for a long time as they took notes in their respective journals. Occasionally Sextus made small noises, which Harrow guessed must be necessary for his brain to function at capacity. He tapped his fingers against the pages of his journal, took off his glasses and then put them back on, then said, “hm,” in a way that made his whole upper body rock with the exertion of it. Behind them Camilla the Sixth carefully opened drawers and peered at bookcases. She scratched her own notes onto a pad of flimsy. Harrow was willing to bet her entire house that Camilla the Sixth’s pad of flimsy was empty of poetry. 

It would, perhaps, be beneficial to have Ortus with her for this. She couldn’t rely on him for something as complex and dangerous as siphoning, but he was rather observant and would surely find items of note within these rooms that Harrow might miss on first inspection. Perhaps she would return with him in tow at a later time.

Eventually Sextus and his cavalier concluded their investigation of the Lyctor’s study--surely that was what this was--and moved on to other things with a simple, “We’ll leave you to it.” 

It was another hour before Harrow heard a noise in the corridor. She set down the stack of books she’d pulled from the shelves and rushed to the door, as quietly as she could manage given the bones in her pockets, the bones around her wrists and the bones around her neck. She pulled the door open and found Ianthe Tridentarius disappearing around a corner at the far end of the corridor. Ianthe moved sideways, in a manner that made it clear that she intended to wait there, that she was hiding from Harrow rather than simply walking away.

“I saw you,” Harrow called out. She was not in the mood to play games with the Third. “I know you’re standing right there.” 

The Third princess re-appeared and said, “You could have pretended you didn’t. Now we have to _talk._ ”

Ianthe had a point. 

“I don’t like spies.”

Ianthe shrugged. “I don’t like traitors or cultists.”

They stood there for a long time, staring at each other, neither one of them able to come up with anything else to say. Eventually Ianthe rolled her eyes and with a long-suffering sigh said, “I have absolutely no idea what she sees in you, Nonagesimus. You must really be something behind closed doors.” 

Harrow did not stick around long enough to find out what Ianthe Tridentarius might decide to say next.

**

Harrow glowered over her breakfast. Beside her, Aiglamene and Ortus were cheerful, content, which only made Harrow glower harder. The Ninth House should present as a united front and the energy that radiated from her captain and cavalier were the exact opposite of what Harrow wished them to exude. Their relaxed faces and pleasant smiles were extremely un-Ninth and if they kept it up, Harrow would have no choice but to sit them down and lecture them on appropriate behavior. It would start a fight. There would be unnecessary words said about ‘duty’ and ‘debt’. Aiglamene would shout and bang her bone foot against the floor and Harrow would get a pounding headache, but in the end, the captain’s mood would be well and truly soured, so goal achieved.

Harrow nudged Ortus. “Stop smiling.”

Ortus jumped at Harrow’s touch, turned toward her as though he was seeing her for the first time that morning. “I’m not smiling.”

“You are,” Harrow said. Ortus looked away and Harrow followed his gaze. “Stop smiling at the Seventh cavalier.”

Ortus choked on his porridge. “My Lady Harrowhark, I--”

“Don’t _my Lady_ me, Ortus. We aren’t here to have fun. We aren’t here to _flirt_.”

“You are, in fact, here to flirt,” Aiglamene said, her tone matter-of-fact, her eyes forward. She didn’t so much as glance at Harrow or Ortus. “That is the name of this game. You would do well to consider applying the Smiling Skull to your face instead of the Chain, my Lady.”

“Yes, the painted appearance of a rictus grin is sure to win hearts,” Harrow said. “I have made it this far on my own instincts. I have acquired thirty for the Ninth without flirting. Another week and we will return home with forty-five.” This couldn’t last more than another week. The playing field was beginning to thin. If Sextus was correct about _brooms_ and _brides_ , and thus far it appeared that he was, then she had to assume that he would be the next to go. With the Sixth sent home, that left the following week for Harrow’s turn. 

Aiglamene looked like she had more to say, but she was cut short by the arrival of Her Divine Highness looking half-asleep but still somehow maintaining her usual inexplicable magnetism. She was followed closely by the three priests. The two unnamed priests took their seats at an empty table. The Third and the Fifth had both chosen to sit at Gideon’s usual breakfast table and Harrow thought she caught Gideon pause for just a second, hardly noticeable, before she smiled and sat down in their midst. They began talking to her at once with smiles that tightened when Gideon turned from one House to the next. Lady Abigail Pent reached out and brushed something from the collar of Gideon’s shirt and Gideon started and took the Fifth necromancer’s hand in hers, Harrow guessed in some strange attempt to it move away. 

The entire scene was painful to watch. Desperate. Harrow couldn’t understand why the Fifth even had a horse in this race. They were already married. And the Third--was Ianthe just there as the sneering wingwoman for her sister? 

When Gideon looked up and searched the room, Harrow averted her eyes. She did not want to know if Gideon was looking for her, but she felt that look as soon as it found her anyway. Anger flooded her gut and she took an angry bite of porridge. She needed to speak with Gideon, to tell her what it was like for her in that crowd at the key ceremony, to tell her why it could not happen again. She needed to do everything in her power to avoid Gideon and make sure it didn’t happen again. She had yet to determine how she could meet both objectives. Perhaps a strongly worded letter? 

Teacher cleared his throat. 

“Our first week gone and what a week it was! We’ve said our goodbyes to to the Eighth and today we welcome the start of a new chapter full of surprises, both challenging and entertaining! This week Her Divine Highness shall attend a series of one-on-one dates--I know, I know.” Teacher clapped his hands to calm the murmuring of the crowd. “We have also learned that this week marks a very happy occasion, the wedding anniversary of Lady Abigail Pent and Magnus the Fifth.”

Harrow and Ortus twitched simultaneously. No words were needed.

“Wonderful news. Something to celebrate!”

Cue immediate audible grumbling from the two-thirds of the Third that weren’t sitting directly beside Gideon. Coronabeth smiled brightly and remained silent.

“No need for any of that, my good man,” Magnus the Fifth said, and then Abigail Pent cut in, a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder. 

“We are, of course, honored that you would acknowledge us.” 

Teacher nodded, a little too enthusiastically. ”No feathers, no feathers. Good wishes all around!”

This did not seem to satisfy the Third, who were most likely fabricating a new date for the twins’ birthdays to be announced and celebrated next week. 

“Now, the moment I know you’ve all been anxiously awaiting. The one-on-one dates! Who will be joining Her Divine Highness for this highly coveted solo time, an entire evening to get to know each other without the interruption of another heir? For this, we returned to the survey questionnaires that were provided to you at the start of our journey.” 

Harrow relaxed. She sat back in her seat, sure that she was safe for another week. 

Teacher continued: “Three heirs were chosen and three heirs shall embark on an evening of intimate connection--” The Second necromancer snorted and then attempted to make it seem like she was choking on her tea. Her cavalier tapped her on the back. Gideon grinned, apparently appreciating that the Second found juvenile humor in poor word choices.

“Not like that,” Teacher said, hardly missing a beat. Magnus the Fifth erupted with a hearty guffaw, which sent the Seventh into giggles. All of these people seemed to be having so much _fun_. 

Harrow turned to glare at her cavalier.

Ortus shook his head. “I’m still not smiling, my Lady.”

“Good.”

“The three Houses that will spend an evening with Her Divine Highness are the Fifth House, the Seventh House, and last but certainly not least, the Ninth House. Congratulations! Congratulations to you all.”

Harrow stiffened in her seat. “That can’t be.” Ianthe Tridenterius was staring at her and Harrow remembered the way her eyes rolled at Harrow in the corridor upstairs.

Teacher said, “Details about your evening will be delivered to your rooms. Her Highness will make her rounds today, so keep an eye out. A special encounter may happen at any time!”

“How can this be?”

“Is it so unexpected, my Lady?’ Aiglamene asked. She seemed suspiciously calm. “After all, you were chosen second at last week’s ceremony.”

“But that’s--the priest said they chose the houses based on those silly surveys. I did not fill out a survey.”

Ortus was trying very hard not to smile again. Aiglamene’s mouth twitched.

Harrow seethed. “What?”

**

Harrow ignored her food, her captain, her cavalier, the cold lingering looks from the Third, and the less cold yet somehow worse lingering looks from the First Reborn’s First Born. She needed to speak with Gideon. She needed to fix this, make sure they understood each other and, more importantly, understood that this could not continue. A strongly worded letter was not enough. This had to be dealt with immediately.

Aiglamene and Ortus rushed away as soon as they finished their meals. Harrow let them go. That fight could wait.

In the corridor, Harrow covered her face with her veil and stood back against a wall, well away from the crowds that still gathered around her Divine Highness, in a location where she could still see Gideon and Gideon could still see her. She waited as the other houses slowly trickled out of the room, heading off in different directions to whatever mundane things they found to fill their days here.

Coronabeth Tridentarius waited until she was standing directly in front of Harrow before she turned to her cavalier and said, “I am, without a doubt, falling head over heels in love with Her Highness.” She said it loud enough for everyone in her vicinity to hear, confirming to all that the statement was meant to be read as a territorial claim.

“Who would blame you,” Naberius the Third returned, with a disgusting little laugh. 

Ianthe looked directly at Harrow and said, “You’re lucky, sister, that the other houses failed to send adequate competition.”

The Third was very obviously reeling from the events of the last two days. First they were surpassed by the Ninth in a key ceremony--coming in third was an insult to the Third--and before they had a chance to recover from this blow, they were denied _an evening of intimate connection_ with her Divine Highness. What an awful week it must be for the Third. 

Eventually the crowd diminished and Gideon emerged from the dining hall to stand before Harrow, tall and smiling. 

“Morning,” she said, with a duck of her head. 

“It’s a terrible morning,” Harrow corrected from behind her veil. “Which is why I need to speak with you right away.”

Gideon paused at that. “What happened?”

“What happened?” Harrow repeated, incredulous that Her Divine Highness did not understand _exactly_ why the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House was standing before her in distressed frustration. “Where do I start? All right, how about this: you chose me _second_.”

The corner of Gideon’s mouth twitched. Her eyebrows furrowed, just slightly. She crossed her arms across her chest. Her shirt was pushed up to her elbows and even through the veil, Harrow could see how the light caught on the pale hair on her forearms. In the light, the hair on her arms looked less the color of the hair on her head, and more the blond of the Tridentarius twins.

“I don’t--that’s all?” 

“You can’t choose me second.”

“Why not?” 

“Did you hit your head on your way out of bed this morning?” Harrow snapped. “You can’t choose me second because people will _talk_. They’re talking already.”

“Let them talk, who cares?”

In that moment Harrow was sure that it was one of the most infuriating conversations she’d ever had, topped only by the fight with her parents that sent Harrow to the First. “Your Highness, people will say that I am--that we have been inappropriate behind closed doors and out of the public eye.” She heard Ianthe’s judgement on replay as she spoke these words.

Gideon laughed. “It’s Gideon. And also, come on, I don’t see why they would think that.”

Gideon was dense. An imbecile. No wonder God had locked her in a tower with a bunch of batty old priests.

“Your Highness--Gideon--why _else_ would you choose a black vestal from the Ninth?”

Gideon shrugged. “I can think of several reasons.”

“Name them,” Harrow challenged. 

“Have dinner with me and I will.”

“I don’t like dinner,” Harrow said, immediately. “That reminds me! I never filled out your questionnaire, which means by your own rules you must choose another house.”

“Yes, you did,” Gideon said. 

“I certainly did not. I burned the thing.”

“Harsh,” Gideon said. “Well, then the Ninth did. Your captain and your cavalier did.” 

Harrow froze. “They did _what?_ ” She’d suspected, of course. She’d seen their faces. She’d watched them rush away from her--as much as Aiglamene or Ortus could rush. She hadn’t expected that Gideon--”You were involved?”

“Not directly,” Gideon said. “I knew Teacher had delivered another survey to your quarters. When it was returned and all the questions were answered, I guessed it probably wasn’t you, so I assumed--Ortus the Ninth always has a pen in his hand. Captain Aiglamene looks like she’d rather hold something else, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I _don’t_ ,” Harrow said, slightly aghast at the thought that Her Divine Highness would voice such an innuendo about a woman as old and accomplished as Aiglamene. 

“A sword. I meant she’d rather hold a sword. Ortus looks like he’d do anything to avoid holding his own sword.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Harrow said again, more than slightly aghast that Gideon could have meant anything other than his rapier.

“Do you want to read what he wrote?”

Harrow squeezed her eyes shut. She did. She also really didn’t. 

“I don’t.” She paused a beat, reconsidered, and said, “Just tell me the very worst of it.”

“I’m not sure what you’d consider the worst of it, but if I had to guess, it was probably the very flattering things you had to say about me,” Gideon said. “A real way with words. You think my hair ‘burns with the rays of Dominicus?’ It goes on to say things like, ‘I see you and I am lit.’ Really beautiful stuff, but also, an awful lot of words just to say you think I’m hot.”

Harrow’s entire body was screaming. _Ortus_. “I never said you were hot.”

“I know.” 

There was a sound at the end of the corridor and Gideon looked up, turned toward the noise so Harrow was left staring at the long line of her neck, the shorn hair behind her ear. Gideon had a small scar there, a short line where no hair grew. 

Harrow cleared her throat and turned to look at their intruder. 

It was Teacher standing at the end of the corridor. He waved when he saw that she’d noticed. 

“Reverend Daughter, always a pleasure!” he said, his voice loud. “If I might steal Her Highness away for her morning meetings?”

“Anyway,” Gideon said with a sigh. “Dinner’s just how it’s going to read on the paper. We can do something else. I have an idea for something else.”

This time, Harrow felt fairly certain that Gideon’s idea for _something else_ involved Harrow raising a bunch of constructs so that Gideon could fight them. That was fine. It was a better idea than dinner. It would involve some bleeding, but blessedly little opportunity for flirting.

“If I attend, you’ll tell me what you meant when you said you had an idea that would change my mind about all of this,” Harrow said, and then before Gideon could counter: “It isn’t a request. It’s a prerequisite. I will attend on the condition that you stop playing with me and tell me why you think you have information that would make me want to stay.”

Gideon bowed to Harrow, one hand against her stomach, the other behind her. She looked up at Harrow and flashed that brilliant, infectious, and completely frustrating smile. “Done.”

Harrow watched as Gideon strode off toward Teacher, with long legs and clomping boots, a hint of a swagger to her step. Ridiculous.

Harrow had a meeting of her own to attend.

**

“Her hair _burns with the rays of Dominicus_ , Ortus? I see her and I am _lit_? This is the epic love poem you started writing, isn’t it? I should kill you for this. I should kill you both!”

She was standing in the center of the main room and she was flanked by skeletons, four on either side. The one furthest to her left took two steps toward Ortus. Her cavalier flinched and took a stumbling step back, then one more step, closer to Aiglamene.

“I’m sorry, my Lady Harrowhark,” Ortus said, in a tone that sounded to Harrow like he’d rehearsed for this moment. “It was for the good of the House.”

“I’ll show you ‘the good of the House.’” Harrow said. She wasn’t even sure what she meant by that. It didn’t matter, it pushed some kind of button, because Aiglamene drew her sword.

“All right. Very dramatic,” Aiglamene said. “You sound enough like one of Ortus’s characters to make his words seem believable. Put the constructs away.”

“Her Divine Highness knew that it wasn’t written with my hand. No one here would believe I’d ever write such a drivel.”

“No one here knows the first thing about you,” Aiglamene said. 

Ortus’s face went red. He found an ounce of courage somewhere within himself and stepped toward Harrow. “Drivel! Go on, my Lady. Say that again. I’ll show you drivel.”

Aiglamene held out a hand to still Ortus. She turned to Harrow. 

“The questionnaire was completed, and because the questionnaire was completed, you were chosen for a one-on-one date with Her Divine Highness,” Aiglamene explained. She said it all very slowly as though speaking to a very small and very stupid child. Harrow pulled up two more constructs. Aiglamene did not flinch or even look at them. Aiglamene had never felt threatened by any of Harrow’s armies before, why start now?

“Mission accomplished,” Aiglamene finished.

“I am not the Ninth’s whore,” Harrow said, and as soon as it was out of her mouth she felt exactly like the very small and very stupid child Aiglamene was addressing. She pushed the feeling aside and forged ahead. “I will not be sold off to the highest bidder.”

“No one expects to earn a cent for you.” Aiglamene’s words were far more harsh than they needed to be. “It’s the Ninth House doing the bidding, and the House will spend what little it has to ensure we have the highest bid.”

Harrow laughed. As though the Ninth House could ever outbid the Third or the Fifth.

“It isn’t personal, my Lady,” Aiglamene concluded. “We’ve all received our orders.”

Harrow imagined her constructs rushing Aiglamene, imagined them pulling Aiglamene and Ortus down to the floor, holding them there with skeletal hands and skeletal feet. She imagined pressing her boot to Aiglamene’s wrist until the captain’s sword fell from her hand and clattered to the floor.

She didn’t do it. She didn’t pull constructs from Aiglamene’s toe bones or rip up Ortus’s journals.

She didn’t do it, because when it came down to it, they were right. They were doing exactly what they’d been instructed to do. Harrow was here to _flirt_ and to win and the fact that Harrow was unwilling or unable to complete the task at hand did not change the nature of their orders. It did not change their goal.

Forty-five souls for the Ninth was not enough, but it _had_ to be enough. Harrow had to make sure that it was enough. She could not manage more.

She released the constructs and they clattered to the floor.

**

That night Harrow slept in the library. 

Correction: That night Harrow tried to sleep in the library. 

She pulled one of the dusty old armchairs into a secluded corner and had just dozed off when Lady Abigail Pent appeared to turn on the lights.

“Oh!” Abigail said. She held a stack of books and she dropped them on the nearest table with a heavy _thump_. “Apologies, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

Harrow shifted in the chair, lifted the book she’d deliberately set in her lap. “I fell asleep while reading.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Abigail leaned forward to read the title of Harrow’s book. “Oh! Marriage traditions of the Eighth House. Interesting choice.”

Harrow snapped the book shut and shoved it against the arm of the chair. She hadn’t read a single word of the text. She knew almost nothing about the marriage traditions of the Eighth, but she said:. “It is, actually. Though perhaps not as interesting as the marriage traditions of the Fifth.”

Abigail smiled like she had heard this line before. “Ah, you mean a necromancer marrying her cavalier. It really throws people into a tizzy, doesn’t it?”

“Of course. It would,” Harrow said. It was perverse. She bit down on her tongue before she said that part out loud.

“It happened the other way around, actually,” Abigail explained. “Marriage first, cavalier second, but it could have happened either way, I suppose. I think we would have ended up in the exact same place.”

Harrow didn’t know what to say to that. She had nothing good to say to that. She kept her mouth shut.

“Is it unheard of on the Ninth?” Lady Abigail asked. “I thought, given the diminished population following that unfortunate outbreak of crèche flu that--well.”

That the Ninth couldn’t afford to be so picky? That Harrow’s parents would demand that she either marry her cavalier or compete in a marriage competition for the hand of Her Divine Highness? 

“Unheard of,” Harrow confirmed. She shoved her book back onto the shelf, abandoned the library to Abigail Pent, and returned to her rooms. She found Aiglamene sitting up at the large table, sipping a cup of water, her skeletal leg stretched out to one side. 

“Good night,” Harrow said. Her plan was to cross the room without another word, shutting herself into the bedroom, where she’d still have to deal with Ortus’s snoring, but that would drown out Aiglamene’s reprimands.

Aiglamene stopped her passage with a hand on her arm.

“The invitation arrived,” she said, and nodded toward a thick square of paper set out on the table. 

Harrow moved toward the paper and read the text. An intimate dinner with Her Divine Highness, two days from now, with directions to a terrace on one of the upper levels. Two days from now. Gideon must have scheduled their date for last.

“It’s a ridiculous scheme they’ve got going here,” Aiglamene said, her voice low. “We all understand that. It’s humiliating, but it is a chance for you. Probably the best chance you’ll get. You can return with a few souls and you’re right, that’ll buy you a couple more years, but the House will push for an heir. The Ninth needs an heir.”

“You really want me to do this,” Harrow said. It was the first time that Aiglamene had personalized the conversation, the first time it was more than just the orders she’d received.

Aiglamene shrugged. “It’s your choice. But you know and I know that if you don’t come out of this with a wife, you’ll end up married to your cavalier. Her Divine Highness has an agreeable enough personality, she’s easy on the eyes, and she’s the daughter of the King Undying. It’s your choice, but if you ask me, she’s someone to consider despite these silly circumstances.”

Harrow tapped her fingers against the table. She’d never thought much about the course of Aiglamene’s life, but she thought about it now. She wondered who Aiglamene had loved and lost, who she’d left behind to return to the Ninth. It didn’t matter. Harrow would never ask.

“I could look for a…” she trailed off when she realized that her suggestion--to look for a suitable match in another House--would make the Ninth an appendage of that House. It could not happen, would never be allowed. “There must be another way.”

“If the Ninth believed in the Third’s brand of fairy tale, you could hope for an influx of young visitors, pilgrims to the Ninth.”

Harrow shook her head. No one had looked to join the ranks of the Ninth since before Harrow was born. They made their pilgrimage, they stopped to gawp and gape, to watch the nuns pray to the Tomb, and then they left without a backward glance. An entire generation wiped out by a mysterious flu that no one could explain or promise to prevent could do that.

“I’ll find another way,” Harrow insisted. Aiglamene might be right. Harrow still couldn’t do it. She had to believe there was another way.

Aiglamene nodded her head, took another sip of her water. “I trust that you will, my Lady. I will leave you to your plans.”

“Thank you,” Harrow said, happy to stop butting heads with her captain. She slipped the invitation into the pocket of her robe and retreated to the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Ortus was a large lump on the cot at the base of her bed. He didn’t stir when she entered and his snores rumbled through the room.

She moved into the room until she was standing beside him, until she could see his slack face. His hair was turning gray at the temples. It was a relatively new development, a change she only noticed after her parents put forth the subject of marriage. It had instantly aged him. Or perhaps it had simply reminded Harrow of his age. 

In the morning she would apologize to her cavalier. In the morning she would assure him that they would never marry each other, that she would do everything in her power to make sure that it never happened, that he was safe from that fate. 

In the morning, she would show him the laboratories. She would find out what was destroying her constructs.

**

The next few days passed in a blur of destroyed skeletons, in several arguments with Ortus (who succeeded in identifying the enormous construct that was destroying Harrow’s skeletons, but had completely failed at making some necessary observation that Harrow needed to destroy it). When, in an interesting turn of events, Ortus started disappearing before dawn in an attempt to avoid his necromancer, Harrow occupied herself with other things, with a second examination of the Lyctor study, with wandering the halls and completing a recount of the locked doors. She saw a lot of the Fifth (who practically lived in the library) and the Sixth (who practically lived in the laboratories below the hatch), and occasional glimpses of the others. Coronabeth Tridentarius swimming laps with her cavalier. Palamedes Sextus and Camilla the Sixth laughing on a courtyard terrace with Dulcinea Septimus and Protesilaus the Seventh. Abigail Pent bent over an increasingly massive stack of books. Gideon laughing with Magnus the Fifth and Marta the Second, her head thrown back, her hand pressed tight against her stomach. Ortus staring out at the sea on a tucked away terrace, scribbling furiously on a piece of flimsy and glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t found. 

The night of her date with Gideon arrived sooner than expected. Ortus reappeared from one of his many hiding places just in time to suggest that Harrow dress in the robes she’d worn the night of the commencement ball. She pulled the lace veil down over her eyes and didn’t fight when Aiglamene stepped in and pinned it back on her hood.

“It’s no use if she can’t see your face,” Aiglamene reminded her. There was a note of kindness in her voice now that Harrow had never heard there before. It was strangely comforting to feel like they were on the same side. Harrow wondered how long it could last. 

Ortus walked beside her as she traversed Canaan House, climbing the endless stairs toward the upper floors. She memorized the path to the terrace earlier in the week and did not need the escort, but Ortus was adamant. When they arrived at the exit that led to the terrace, Ortus stood beside her in the corridor and looked at her with big black-ringed eyes. She stiffened, suddenly afraid he might try to hug her. He’d turned this into a much more momentous occasion than it actually was. All of his hopes seemed to be riding on this night. 

Harrow resisted the urge to lash out. 

Ortus resisted the urge to hug her. 

Instead Ortus nodded his head in approval and said, “Good luck, my Lady,” in a tone that did nothing but remind Harrow that she held both of their fates in her hands, that he was counting on her to save him from imminent marriage to the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House.

“Thank you,” Harrow said, despite herself.

She approached the door and two skeletal constructs rushed to open it for her. She stepped out onto the terrace. It appeared to be one of the more stable Canaan House terraces and a small table was set at its center. Candles burned along the edges where the stones were slowly crumbling into the sea.

She’d arrived early, and she made her way to the table. She was about to sit down when the skeletons clamored to open the door and Her Divine Highness stepped outside. Gideon wore white trousers--for residents of a dusty crumbling old tower, the First wore an awful lot of white--and a dark shirt that she’d rolled up at the sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck, like a deconstructed version of the suit she’d worn to the commencement ball. She looked like she’d started the evening with more clothes, but they’d been removed somewhere along the way until she arrived here, disheveled, a little ruffled. It was an attractive look, even Harrow could admit that..

“You’re here,” Gideon said, by way of greeting. She pushed at her sleeves again, a nervous habit, and when she approached Harrow, it was with hands out, as though she expected to take Harrow’s hands in her own. 

Harrow kept her arms hidden within her robes, but she nodded at Gideon and said, “We had a deal, did we not?”

“We did,” Gideon agreed. She gave up on the hand-holding and stepped behind Harrow, pulled out a chair and gestured for Harrow to sit down. “We did, and I’m going to get to that. There are just a few things that we have to get out of the way first.”

Once Harrow was seated, Gideon stepped away to speak with the constructs. Harrow had never seen anyone _converse_ with constructs before and she wondered whether this was some strange nervous act--Gideon stepping aside to psyche herself up under the pretense of giving instruction--or if Harrow needed to look more closely at the First’s skeletal servants.

Eventually Gideon returned to the table and the two skeletons disappeared into the tower.

“Okay,” Gideon said. “They’re going to bring the food and then we’re on our own and we can talk.”

“You were speaking to them?” Harrow asked.

“Yeah,” Gideon said. “Of course.”

Harrow stared at the spot where the skeletons had disappeared. “But they can’t understand. They’re constructs.”

“They understand well enough,” Gideon said. “They aren’t really constructs. They are and they aren’t. I don’t know the specifics.” 

It was a frustrating response. Harrow needed more. She’d been distracted, preoccupied by other things, she hadn’t--she made a note to speak with Sextus about this. She’d have to be quick about it. He didn’t have much time left. 

The skeletons returned with plates of food, which they set on the table. They lingered there until Gideon nodded and then they turned and disappeared back through the doors. They really were extraordinary.

“What is this?” Harrow asked. The soup she recognized. The beige pile of shapes on a plate she did not.

“That’s the same seaweed soup we have all the time,” Gideon said, pointing at the bowl, “but I saw you like it watered down so it’s less salty. I had them dilute it for you. That’s--well, it’s just pasta. You haven’t had it? There’s a sauce, but I didn’t think you’d want it, so it’s in this bowl if you decide you do.” She lifted the lid on a bowl to show Harrow it’s bright red contents.

“Oh,” Harrow said. She was surprised by the soup, surprised that Gideon had noticed.

Gideon was watching her with those extraordinary gold eyes, but when Harrow carefully picked up her fork, Gideon looked toward her own plate and began eating her soup. Harrow was grateful for that. She wasn’t very hungry, wasn’t sure that she would like pasta, and didn’t want to try it while Gideon watched.

She speared a slippery white-ish chunk on her fork and brought it to her mouth. There was something on it, salt and some kind of oil, but not too much salt or too much oil. She chewed it slowly, contemplating its texture.

Gideon did not ask her how it was. Harrow did not offer her opinion. 

It wasn’t bad. It was fine. She picked at it for a few minutes, and then stopped to watch Gideon eat instead. Before they left Drearburh, Harrow imagined how this would go. She imagined sitting across from some faceless necromancer, the powerful and unknowable daughter of God. She imagined tests of her skill, competitions to prove which House had produced a necromancer worthy of the second greatest necromancer in the Nine Houses. 

She hadn’t imagined anything like this.

“Forgive me if this is too forward, Your Highness--”(“Gideon,” Gideon interjected.)”--but, am I correct in assuming you aren’t an adept?” Harrow asked. It was very strange, incomprehensible, really, that the daughter of the Emperor Undying would not present as a necromancer. Harrow couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“That’s right,” Gideon said. She shrugged, seemed just slightly uncomfortable with the question, but she buried that immediately and the edge of discomfort disappeared from her posture.

“It’s funny how that works, isn’t it?” Harrow asked. She had more questions. She had lots of questions, such as, why did God fail where her parents succeeded? Wouldn’t God _want_ his child to be a necromancer? What was the point of the Emperor Undying having a daughter with no power? Was there any proof that this woman actually did share the Emperor’s blood? And if she was the Emperor’s daughter and was not an adept, why lock her up here? What were they afraid of? Why _wasn’t_ she in the Cohort climbing the ranks like Aiglamene had said?

Harrow obviously didn’t ask any of these questions. The one she had asked was bad enough. She did have _some_ tact.

“Funny,” Gideon agreed, though she didn’t look like she thought it was all that funny really. She leaned in toward Harrow. Harrow held her breath. “Are you ready to discuss, you know, the thing?”

“Beyond.”

Gideon smiled, but it seemed tentative, a little shy. Harrow hadn’t seen that smile before. “Okay, so here goes. What if I told you that I wanted you to win this?”

Harrow laughed, a short unexpected little bark. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“I’ve heard the rumors about your House. The Ninth needs an injection of Undying Lord into its line more than anyone else here.”

What the--Her Divine Highness was a _pervert_. 

“No, thank you!” Harrow said, immediately. She dropped her napkin over the plate of pasta and stood to leave.

“Reverend Daughter,” Gideon said. She caught Harrow’s hand in hers. Harrow shook her hand free. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“Divine Highness,” Harrow said, clearing her throat. “The Ninth cannot compete on the grounds of beauty or wealth or--or interest!”

“Then why did you come?” Gideon asked. It was the look on her face that stopped Harrow from stalking off. Despite her words, she didn’t appear arrogant here. She didn’t look smug or knowing or superior. Her forehead was furrowed with concern at Harrow’s rejection. The hand that had stopped Harrow sat curled against her knee. Her other hand scratched at her wrist. Her eyes never left Harrow, so when Harrow stopped staring down at her hands and looked back at Gideon’s face, it lit up, just a little, the creases in her forehead settling out, her mouth just a little slack.

Harrow sat back down. She was loathe to admit it. She had to admit it. “I need souls. I need enough souls to kickstart a generation.”

“And you thought the fifteen soul consolation prize would be enough?” Gideon asked. “Don’t answer that. I can already tell it’s going to involve some colorful names so I’ll just get to the point, which is that I wasn’t kidding last week. I have an idea and I really think you might like it.”

“What is it?” Harrow asked. “You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

“Okay, here goes: We pretend we’re in love.”

“No,” Harrow said, immediately, unwilling to give it even a moment’s consideration. Then she did consider it, and she started to laugh. It wasn’t an attractive laugh, it was sad and it was mean and when she got herself back under control again, she said, “No,” once more for good measure. 

Gideon was not deterred. She just leaned closer and forged on.

“It’s perfect. I choose you, we get married, you get your souls, we can have a kid if you need it, and then I’m out.”

 _We can have a kid if you need it._ “We can have a kid if I need it?!”

“That’s part of the deal. Their home shall be my home, blessed by the Lord Undying and imbued by his seed--by his _seed_ he means me. You get that, right? It’s fucking gross. Our union will rejuvenate the House line, etcetera etcetera. It’s pretty freaky and so fucking obvious he never expected to have a kid and had to scramble to figure out what to do with me.” Here Gideon shrugged.

Harrow wasn’t sure what to say to this. She hadn’t expected Her Divine Highness to be so _coarse_. She’d never heard anyone speak so casually about the Emperor. She settled on the logistical questions, as these seemed the most pressing.

“Are you giving birth to the child? Is the First providing the reproductive technology required for you and I to produce an heir together, because the Ninth does not have the means.”

“Yes,” Gideon said. “Yes, of course. That has to be part of the deal. Except that first part. I’m not giving birth.”

“Me neither,” Harrow said in a rush, hardly thinking about the implications.

“Okay, so that’s settled.” It wasn’t, unless by _settled_ Gideon meant that that technology would be provided to the Ninth as well. 

Gideon continued: “Listen, I have failed to get myself off this rock eighty-seven times, so far. If you come up with a better plan, please let me know. Right now I’m banking on marrying the least offensive person here, whoever doesn’t mind me doing the bare minimum to produce an heir with some exciting blood connections and spend the rest of my time off-world finally living a life I choose. Good bye Nine Houses and fuck you.”

This additional insight into Gideon’s plans was surprising--eighty-seven escape attempts!--but it relaxed Harrow. What Gideon was suggesting was a marriage in name only--that could spare Harrow and benefit the Ninth. And in truth, she was still hung up on Gideon’s easy response to Harrow’s statement that she would not give birth. That was a thrilling thought. It was the first time that Harrow had ever allowed herself the freedom to say it out loud, that she would not choose to give birth. She’d been raised with the assumption that one day she would follow in the footsteps of her mother. She would provide the Ninth with an heir by whatever means necessary, and with the limited resources of her House, she would necessarily be expected to carry the child herself. To have a _choice_ in the course of her life--that was exhilarating. That was not something she considered when she arrived here.

Gideon shifted in her seat and Harrow realized it had been some time since she had spoken. Before she could decide what to say, Gideon filled the silence and started speaking again.

“So this is the part you probably won’t like, because the thing is, I can’t be that obvious, so whoever wins this thing, it has to seem like--it has to seem like it makes sense. And for it to make sense, I need you to start participating, because look, I know what I said before, but I said that when I still thought I could pull this off with someone else. I can’t pretend I’m falling for the Sixth, no one would believe that. The Fifth is just--the whole thing is a little too weird for me. The Second, the Third, and the Seventh are actually _in_ this, like really taking this seriously, so if I marry one of them, I’m stuck on the Third, the Second, or the Seventh, which is a huge upgrade from here, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not what I’m after.”

“You want freedom,” Harrow said.

“Don’t you?”

“No,” Harrow said, and it tasted like a lie. “I want to replenish my House, pull it back from the brink of disaster.”

Gideon contemplated that for a long moment and then said, “If you succeed, then isn’t that the same thing?” 

The Ninth House replenished, Harrow’s future secured with a spouse who would allow her to make her own choices, a spouse who would not demand or expect something that Harrow was not inclined to give. It did sound an awful lot like the same thing.

“Who do you need to convince?” Harrow asked. “The other houses?”

“Teacher,” Gideon said. “The other priests. The skeletons.” (The _skeletons_.) “Good old Dad, if he’s watching or listening or who the fuck even knows anymore. At the very least he’s getting nightly reports from Teacher.”

“Okay,” Harrow said, because she wasn’t sure what else to say.

Gideon leaned in, reached out like she might try to take Harrow’s hand again. Harrow must have flinched because Gideon pulled back at the last moment and let her hand fall onto the table beside Harrow’s, close enough that Harrow could almost feel her fingers without their hands actually touching. Harrow resisted the urge to pull her hand away. If she was going to agree to this--and she was starting to think that she might--she needed to make sure that she could follow through.

Gideon said: “I have actually thought about this, I’m not just throwing shit at the wall to see what’s going to stick. I really think we’d be good for each other. Not like...in a married with babies way. I think that we have complementary goals and we should take advantage of that. The Ninth needs souls and eventually you’re going to need an heir, right? I’ve got a whole lotta souls just waiting to go to the last House standing. I can give you an heir--we don’t have to dwell on the details. We can work that out. And you don’t actually want me as a wife, which is perfect, because it means you won’t mind if I don’t stick around.”

“This is _cheating_ ,” Harrow said, and she honestly couldn’t believe that this was the aspect of it all that she was suddenly stuck on. 

“No, it’s not. I’m choosing the Ninth, that’s not cheating. I’m just telling you that before I’m supposed to so you stop freaking out every time I hand you a key.”

“What if you change your mind?” Harrow had a hard time imagining a scenario in which Gideon would _not_ change her mind. She would wake up one morning and she would see Harrowhark Nonagesimus standing between Judith Deuteros and Coronabeth Tridentarius and she would realize she’d made a huge mistake, that she could have her pick of anyone, and living permanently on the Third or the Second was leagues better than spending even a single day on the Ninth. 

“I won’t,” Gideon said.

“But what if you do?” Harrow pressed.

“If I do, we’ll talk about it,” Gideon said. “You might change your mind too, and if you do, we’ll talk about it. Even if one of us changes our mind, what’s the worst case scenario here? Worst case you stay here a little longer, and you still go home better off than you would have if you’d gone the first week, right?”

She made it sound so logical, but thinking about it and doing it were two different things. What Gideon proposed required Harrow to do the one thing she promised herself she would not do upon her arrival. It required her to stand in front of the other houses at Her Divine Highness’s side and proclaim that she was in this race, that she believed she had the means to attract this woman to herself and her House. It required her to seem charming, to play along. Harrow had serious doubts she was physically capable of pulling this off. As it was, her heart fluttered and her hands shook a little at just the proximity of Gideon’s hand to her own. And that was with no one there to witness. How could she manage this in a crowd? 

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Harrow admitted. 

“You can’t pretend to like me?” 

“I can’t transform myself into a Princess of Ida,” Harrow said. “I can’t _do_ what she does. I can’t be a person you might convincingly be attracted to. I cannot compete with my face or my physical attributes. I can’t compete with a uniform or a sword. I have nothing to offer and if _I_ can’t believe it’s possible, how would anyone else?”

Gideon whistled. “Okay, that’s a whole lot of--I’m not sure what to say to any of that right now except that you’re wrong, but this doesn’t sound like something I’m going to be able to convince you of in one night, so maybe just… let me do the work? You be you, but a more _there_ you, and I’ll do the rest.”

That sounded terrifying, almost worse than the thought of acting as someone other than herself. But. Five hundred souls. The thought that she could actually return to the Ninth with _five hundred_ had seemed unimaginable before, so far out of the realm of possibility that it wasn’t worth serious contemplation, but Gideon sat here now and told her that it could be done, that it was the outcome that Her Divine Highness _wanted_ and that she would help Harrow to achieve that for her House. It was--

It was absolutely cheating. It was not at all how this was supposed to go. 

But the decision was Gideon’s to make. 

“I need time to think about this,” Harrow said. 

“Yeah, of course. We’ve got some time.” She said it casually, but Harrow understood that Gideon would need to plan accordingly. If Harrow could not do this, she had to give Gideon enough time to determine an alternate course of action. 

“I do have one more question,” Gideon said. “Do you have the hots for the Third? You bring them up a lot.” 

Harrow squeezed her eyes shut. “I think I might actually hate you.”

Gideon laughed. “As long as you hate me so much you’ll marry me and then agree to hardly ever see me again, then I’m good. Also I’m calling that a yes.” She leaned in, still smiling, all collarbone and muscled forearms. If she leaned over any further her gaping shirt would fall into the red mess on her plate. “So I was thinking…”

“Yes,” Harrow said. She couldn’t help it. She rolled her eyes and clarified. “Wait, I’m sorry, an emphatic _no_ to the Third. Yes, I’ll raise some constructs for you.”

Gideon flopped back against her seat, a triumphant smile on her face. “Finally,” she moaned. Her head fell back, face up toward the sky, that long neck once again on display. 

Harrow looked away. “Here?” she asked.

Gideon was out of her seat in seconds. “Here’s good. I actually--” she held up a hand as she walked to a corner of the terrace. She pulled her sword out from behind a row of potted plants. “I came prepared.”

It should be a little strange, Harrow’s date pulling a giant sword from its hiding place, but then, Harrow had come armed with pockets full of bone chips. Gideon pulled the table and chairs away from the center of the terrace, circled the area, kicking away loose cobbles, and then she returned to Harrow’s side.

“I really want you to lay it on me,” Gideon said, the excitement clear on her face. She was breathing a little heavy with the anticipation of it all. “How many can you hold at once? Ten?”

“Ten? You insult me.”

“Twenty?” Gideon amended, and then at the look on Harrow’s face, she amended again. “Twenty-five?”

Harrow wrapped her hand around a fistful of bone. She smiled. “You really have no idea what you’re getting into.”

**

Harrow wiped blood from her face and watched as the last of her skeletons fell apart beneath Gideon’s blade. She swayed on her feet and knew it was time to sit down. 

Gideon, thankfully, did not call out for more. Instead she stumbled toward Harrow, found an area of the terrace that was not absolutely littered with chunks of bone, and collapsed heavily onto her back, her sword at her side, her chest heaving with the effort of the fight. 

“That was fucking amazing,” Gideon gasped, and if Harrow could speak without feeling like she might faint, she’d likely agree. She’d lost count of the constructs around sixty. She’d fought with everything she had--to a point--had pulled back only when she thought she might do real or lasting damage. Gideon might be desperate for a challenge, but Harrow refused to be responsible for knocking out Her Divine Highness’s teeth or breaking her bones. She did not need Gideon to wake up bruised and battered, to have the other houses looking at her for answers. She could only imagine what they might think.

That said--Gideon was _extremely_ skilled with a sword. She really was astonishingly good.

“You should be in the Cohort,” Harrow said as she surveyed Gideon’s work, the destruction of bone.

“So should you,” Gideon said. 

Harrow looked down at Gideon, at the sweat that sparkled on her skin in the candlelight, the mess of red hair, the movement of her chest and her stomach as she took in big gulps of air. A drop of blood fell from somewhere on Harrow’s face and landed on the shining skin of Gideon’s arm. Gideon wiped it against her trousers, a smear of red on white.

“I’d like to ask something of you,” Harrow said. If Gideon agreed to this, Harrow would tell Ortus immediately. It wasn’t a betrayal or a rejection. It was a release. It was just that--“I need help from someone who… likes to hold their own sword.”

Gideon grinned up at Harrow. “You’ve come to the right place.”

Harrow folded down onto her knees beside Gideon. She kept her voice low as she explained about the facility, the laboratories, the construct that destroyed every skeleton that she threw at it. She explained that she’d rather not kill her cavalier, and that her captain might be able to handle it, but it didn’t feel right to ask. Gideon held up a hand at that point.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’m in.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Fuck, I should have tried much harder to pick that lock.”

Harrow froze. “You pick locks? Have you picked other locks in Canaan House?”

Gideon shrugged. “Sure. What else am I going to do? Break into locked rooms, fight every single skeleton--literally every. Single. Skeleton. I’ve dueled Teacher, the TA, the RA--TA is Teacher’s Assistant. RA is the Canaan House Residential Assistant. They’re the other priests. Anyway, I built a boat once, tried to get out that way. You know what’s out there? Bone sharks. All in all I’ve tried to get out of here...eight-six times?”

“Eighty-seven,” Harrow corrected. “You said eighty-seven earlier.”

“Eighty-seven,” Gideon agreed with a nod. Then she smiled and shook her head. She looked like she wanted to say something--probably a comment about the fact that Harrow had been _listening_ , as though that meant anything at all--but she thought better of it and just kept smiling instead. The smiling was bad enough, but the lock picking--

“I’ll marry you,” Harrow said in a rush. “I’ll play along and I’ll marry you, but I have one condition.”

“Yes,” Gideon said, immediately. “Whatever it is, the answer is yes.”

“I want you to get me into the remaining Lyctor studies,” Harrow said. “I don’t want to wait for a key.”

“That’s cheating,” Gideon said, immediately. Then she corrected. “Just kidding, who cares. You want to be a Lyctor?”

Harrow shrugged. “I can’t say until I know what the process entails. I want to know how it came to be.”

Gideon was no longer smiling. She chewed on her lip lower lip, and then shrugged and said, “Fine, okay.”

“Really?” Harrow asked. 

Gideon shrugged again. “Sure. You’re my ticket out of here. Anything for the future Mrs. Divine Highness.”

Harrow’s face twisted. Gideon tried again. “Anything for The Sepulchral Key to my Divine Lock?”

Harrow felt like she might gag. “Worse, gross.”

“Definitely worse,” Gideon agreed, smiling wide, dimples on full display.

**

The night of the ceremony, the Ninth House was called first and Harrow did not freeze. She did stand there and curse in stupefied surprise. She did not glare. She managed to hide how her body shook as she stepped forward with her head high and her eyes on Gideon’s smiling face. She accepted her key. 

Ortus gaped. 

Aiglamene smiled, and for once it was a smile that looked real. 

Harrow returned to them, took her place beside them. Aiglamene nudged her shoulder, just once, gently in a way that might have been mistaken for the captain losing balance on her mismatched legs. Harrow ignored the heat on her face, ignored the rest of the room. 

When the Fifth was sent home, Harrow’s eyes found the Sixth and she nodded. Sextus raised his eyebrows in surprise, tilted his head toward his cavalier with a shrug, and nodded back.

Gideon hugged the two halves of the Fifth tightly, even going so far as to lift Abigail Pent off the ground. Before they left, Abigail came up beside Harrow. She leaned in and said, “I’ll miss seeing you in the library, but you see, good things happen when you stop hiding behind stacks of books. Good luck, Reverend Daughter. I’m rooting for you.” 

The Fifth necromancer pressed a hand to Harrow’s arm, firm over the layers of black cloth. Her cavalier clapped Ortus on the back hard enough that Ortus stumbled. Magnus the Fifth laughed. Harrow thought she might actually miss that laugh. 

“Happy anniversary,” Harrow said, and meant it.


	4. Rumor Has It

When Harrow arrived at Canaan House, she thought she understood what Hell was. 

She didn’t have to traverse the River to find it. Hell was standing in front of her parents as they threatened to marry her off to her cavalier if she did not accept the First’s invitation. Hell was watching Ortus Nigenad grovel and beg her to save him a lifetime by her side. Hell was arriving at Canaan House and seeing her competition, realizing that she did not have even the slightest chance of winning this, that fifteen souls would never be enough and that she was going to have to marry Ortus despite it all. 

That was nothing compared to this.

Hell was being stuck on a boat in an endless sea. It was sitting on a bench between Ianthe Tridentarius and Dulcinea Septimus, so close she could feel Ianthe’s sharp elbow pressing into her side, with nowhere to go to get away from it. Hell was watching Coronabeth Tridentarius flirt with Her Divine Highness and realizing this was what Harrow had signed up for. Hell was remembering that she willingly agreed to take part in this, that in some strange turn of events, she’d decided to do the _very_ thing she promised herself she would not do when she arrived on the First. She was on a boat in the middle of the sea with her veil and her hood and her face paint. Coronabeth basked in the sun, arms and legs exposed, thighs amazingly meaty for a necromancer, strong and robust, and she pressed one of those thighs up against Gideon’s (clothed) leg and Harrow watched Gideon swallow and avert her eyes, watched the flush threaten to creep up her neck. There was no mistaking any of it. 

Harrow was competing in a fucking marriage competition.

Gideon’s eyes found Harrow’s and settled on her, like some sort of lifeline, like Harrow was the only thing that might save her from the press of Corona’s attractively thick thigh. Gideon’s eyes were a little too wide, a little too dark considering the inescapable blinding light of the afternoon. They stared at each other for one prolonged moment and then Gideon coughed, cleared her throat and stood to check the fishing poles.

“Anything?” Corona asked. She stood too, of course. She was taller than Gideon, or her hair was taller, it was hard to say for sure.

Beside Harrow, Dulcinea Septimus nudged Harrow’s arm, the one that wasn’t being stabbed by Ianthe’s bony elbow. Harrow jumped, startled.

Dulcinea leaned in, her shoulder pushed up against Harrow’s shoulder, and said: “Can I tell you a secret?” She didn’t wait for Harrow to respond. “I hope she wins this.”

Dulcinea’s secret sounded like a trap. “Oh?” 

“Unless you want to win,” Dulcinea said in a rush, “then I’ll change teams. I’ll root for you, but this is the very first time you haven’t run off alone, so I thought--”

“No,” Harrow said. “I simply meant, don’t you want to win?”

Dulcinea considered that. “My House would like to see me married,” she said. “I did come here intending to win. Didn’t we all? But the longer I’m here, the more I think I misjudged myself. The more I think I came for a different reason altogether.”

Harrow turned away. She wasn’t interested in hearing anything more about that, whatever _that_ might be. Dulcinea nudged her again.

“Do you know how to swim, Reverend Daughter?”

There was nowhere for Harrow to move to put space between herself and Dulcinea, so she closed her eyes, steeled herself, and said, “Yes.”

“You do?” Gideon asked, turning to look at them over her shoulder. Beside Harrow, Ianthe sighed. She was wearing a large wide-brimmed hat that hit Harrow in the side of the face when she turned.

“Yes,” Harrow said, matter-of-fact, though she wished she had not responded at all. “We have a pool.”

Ianthe’s hat knocked her in the head and she said, “They do say water aerobics is gentle on old joints.”

Corona laughed. It was a stupid jab. Yes, ha ha, Aiglamene was just _so_ old. Hilarious. The Third probably killed their own at the first appearance of gray hair.

“I don’t know how to swim,” Dulcinea said. She sounded surprisingly cheerful about it. “I’ve never been on a boat.”

Harrow had never been on a boat either, but her parents pushed her into a salt water pool before she learned how to walk. Harrow knew how to swim.

“Pal says you’ve been spending a great deal of time with him in those laboratories.”

Harrow stilled at that. So, notably, did Ianthe. Dulcinea was still smiling. She didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive beyond making small talk to pass the time. Harrow glanced up at Gideon and Coronabeth. They were absorbed in each other again, Corona’s hand coming to rest on Gideon’s arm as she laughed. Harrow realized with not the smallest amount of horror, that Corona was feeling the shifting of Gideon’s biceps as Gideon reeled in the fishing line. Is this what these dates had been like from the start? Get a room!

“Not with him,” Harrow said. She tried her hardest not to show her disgust at the Third’s display. She tried her hardest not to sound defensive. 

“Oh, of course. I didn’t think--” Dulcinea laughed and shook her head, swallowed and shrugged.

They’d spent the entire morning fishing--for their dinner, apparently. Harrow wasn’t eating any of it--and early on Dulcinea had run into trouble pulling in a large fish. Gideon helped her, Gideon’s strong arms around Dulcinea, her hands over Dulcinea’s on the fishing pole. When Dulcinea said something ridiculous, something overly complimentary about Gideon’s strength, Her Divine Highness blushed and deflected. Harrow watched it keenly and wondered if that was how she was supposed to act. Corona’s performance now just confirmed it.

Harrow would rather drown. Feed her to the fish. Chum the waters with her meat.

Sending a group of necromancers out on a boat to go _fishing_ was the stupidest idea that Harrow had ever heard. It was clearly designed to display Gideon’s physicality in comparison, to make the rest of them look weak and pathetic. The thing was, Coronabeth Tridentarius was not weak or pathetic. She handled a fishing pole admirably, everyone could see that, and so she had to look for a different way to get Gideon’s hands on her. She decided to be squeamish about the actual fish, though when no one was looking, Harrow saw that Corona could handle a sharp and squirming fish just fine, her hands strong and sure as they slid the fins back and gripped the writhing body of the thing. With Gideon at her side, Corona shrieked as the fish bounced off her jeweled fingers and flopping helplessly across the deck.

This, Harrow realized after the second time it happened, had the added benefit of forcing Gideon to bend over while she laughed and tried to catch the flapping body, her trousers stretching tight over her ass. Everyone on the boat craned their necks to watch. Harrow huffed in disgust and closed her eyes.

She missed the laboratories. She missed the strain of the theorems pulling at her, the hot slide of the blood that dripped from her nose and her ears as she listened to something enormous demolish skeleton after skeleton after skeleton. 

She even missed Aiglamene and Ortus, though Ortus was with her in a way. A second boat, captained by a second crew of skeleton servants, was trailing theirs and carrying their cavaliers. Naberius the Third, Protesilaus the Seventh, Ortus the Ninth. It sounded only marginally worse than Harrow’s own situation. Harrow tried to glance back over her shoulder at the other boat, but only managed to hit her eye on the brim of Ianthe’s hat.

Ianthe glared. She reached up and touched her fingers to the brim, then brought them back down to check for paint. 

Harrow did not apologize. The boat was still there, not far behind. Behind the boat rose the tower of the First, waves breaking against its stone base like white lace.

Ianthe muttered something about Harrow breathing on her neck. She stood to look at Corona’s (Gideon’s) catch. Most of the time Ianthe seemed terminally uninterested in Her Divine Highness, content to stalk the halls with the Sixth and the Ninth while her sister basked in the sun. Occasionally she decided to get in on the action. Harrow was grateful for Ianthe’s surge of competitive spirit that got her sharp elbows and enormous hat up off the bench and away from Harrow’s bruised arm and battered face. Harrow took the chance to slide away from Dulcinea, to feel open air on both sides. It did not last long. It was only a moment, a few seconds, before Gideon fell heavily onto the bench beside her, rocking the boat just a little with the force of her dive onto the seat. 

“Sorry,” she said, shrugging at the startled faces of Ianthe, Coronabeth, and Dulcinea. “Tripped.” She gestured to a loose line at their feet and then turned to Harrow with a smile. “Hi.”

Corona and Ianthe shared a look, Ianthe’s version a little more sour than Corona’s reflection. Dulcinea laughed and said, “Oh my!”

Harrow was too stunned by the whole thing to say much of anything. The whole boat stunk of fish and Gideon was no exception. She wiped her hands on a fish-soaked towel and then tossed it aside. 

“You aren’t seasick, are you?” 

Harrow cleared her throat and gathered herself. “No, your Highness. I was just wondering whose idea a fishing trip was? It’s very creative.”

“Inspired,” Corona agreed. 

“Absolutely pungent,” Ianthe said, as though this was a compliment and not a complaint. It was a correct assessment either way.

Gideon screwed up her nose. “Yeah, it’s maybe not the most--”

“--romantic?” Dulcinea supplied, though by the look on her face as she stared out at the waves, she did seem to find it just a little romantic.

“--romantic,” Gideon said with a nod. “It’s not the most romantic setting. It’s just that there isn’t a whole lot to do on the First. Maybe you’ve noticed.”

“I’ve found a myriad ways to keep myself entertained,” Ianthe said, immediately. “Haven’t you, Reverend Daughter?”

Harrow wasn’t sure if Ianthe’s question pertained to the basement or the Lyctor studies or Ianthe’s shitty comment the prior week about the things Harrow might be doing behind closed doors. 

Gideon shifted closer, her thigh pressing up against Harrow’s in a way that had to be intentional, had to be a response to the way Corona had sat beside Gideon not long ago. Harrow shifted back toward Dulcinea’s bony knees. Dominicus was high now and she felt sweat collecting in the small of her back, at the center of her chest. Even the backs of her knees were slippery. 

“Your Highness,” Harrow ventured. “Last week you told me about a raft you once built, and I--” 

“--this boat?” Corona cut in, immediately. “You built this boat?” That wasn’t at all what Harrow had planned to say. It was a ridiculous question. These boats were relics, ancient fiberglass hulls and real wood finishing. 

Gideon laughed, her leg bouncing nervously against Harrow’s. “Not this boat. I built like--well, it was more like a raft?”

“I didn’t think--I did say a raft,” Harrow clarified with a sharp look toward the Third. “Let me finish. What I was going to say was that, when you recounted your story, you mentioned that this sea was full of…was it bone sharks?”

“Bone sharks!” Dulcinea sounded like she might spill over with excitement. “Surely that’s just a fairy tale.”

“Oh, it’s real,” Gideon said. She leaned forward so that she could see Dulcinea past Harrow as she said it. It made Harrow feel boxed in, claustrophobic, though she’d spent her entire life in actual enclosed places without ever feeling a twinge of fear.

“I was hoping we might see one,” Harrow admitted. It was the only part of this entire outing that she was actually anticipating. “And since we haven’t seen one, I was thinking that perhaps you might describe it for us, and I could attempt to construct a reasonable facsimile?” Harrow pulled a handful of bone fragments from her pockets to show Gideon.

Ianthe’s eyebrows shot up, her head tilted a little toward the side. Corona seemed less intrigued. Harrow couldn’t see Dulcinea without turning, but it felt like the woman was vibrating beside Harrow, which Harrow took as either fear or giddy excitement. And then there was Gideon. Gideon was staring back at her, her eyes bright in the afternoon sun. The corner of her mouth twitched once and then Gideon let it go and it stretched into a smile. 

“You could do that?”

“Of course,” Harrow said. If Harrow was going to be trapped on a boat and forced to watch the Third and the Seventh flirt, she might as well make it interesting. “And if you’d like, I could have the thing try to jump on board, so you could attack it and save us all while we scream for our lives.” And if they were really lucky, maybe they’d lose the Third to the sea. Dulcinea, Harrow decided, could stay. For now, but only because the Sixth seemed fond of her. And because she’d already announced that she didn’t know how to swim.

Gideon was looking at Harrow like she was a revelation, a complete surprise, and if she didn’t stop it right that instant, Harrow was going to shove her over the side.

“Stop that,” she said, as though they were alone, just the two of them, and it didn’t matter how she spoke to royalty. Gideon didn’t seem to notice. She also didn’t seem to know how to stop that.

Ianthe said, “This is silly. While we’re paying attention to some bone fish, the Ninth is going to stand here and bleed all over everyone’s dinner. Can’t we go a single day without the Reverend Daughter bleeding all over everything?” Harrow knew--had seen it while pressed back into a shadowed corner to avoid detection--that Ianthe Tridentarius did her share of walking the maze of Canaan House with a forehead slick with blood sweat and drops of it staining her beautiful clothes. Ianthe was not as different as she liked to pretend.

Corona said, “Do you have another sword?” 

“What would you do with that?” Ianthe asked. She used the same tone she had when she lamented Harrow’s propensity for bleeding, as though she couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than her sister holding a rapier or a drop of Harrow’s blood on a boat already smeared with fish guts.

“Pro will think we’re being attacked,” Dulcinea said, breathlessly. “They’ll be here with swords drawn in no time.”

Dulcinea’s words just seemed to get Gideon even more into this idea. The skeletal servant standing behind Gideon looked bored.

“Are we going to do this?” Gideon asked, and everything about her screamed yes. She moved to retrieve her sword before anyone had a chance to respond.

“You do have an extra sword?” Corona pressed. Gideon handed her a rapier and Corona’s smile was as bright as Dominicus. “Then yes, let’s do this.”

Ianthe huffed a little, but eventually drawled, “Fine, why not.”

Dulcinea said, “Tell me where I should sit so that I’m completely out of the way, but have a perfect view of _everything_.” Gideon escorted her to the front of the boat, to a seat beside their bony captain. She surveyed the boat and directed another skeleton to stash the fish (”Nobody wants to bite down on a piece of shark bone.”) and then she huddled close to Harrow, too close, and explained in detail what she remembered of the shark. 

Gideon explained it terribly. She described its “big round bone eyes” and a “pointy nose” and “flappy bone hands” and Harrow had never seen a shark before in her life. She hadn’t seen a shark because sharks no longer existed, at least not as far as Harrow knew, and they certainly never existed on the Ninth. There was a drawing in a book she once read, but it was a shark with flesh and not a shark of bone. 

“I can’t believe you’re going to do this,” Gideon said. “Actually, I can’t believe you _can_ do this. This thing scared the shit out of me when I was out here alone, but that was--I didn’t even have a real boat. I could barely move without capsizing the raft. This time.” She tightened her grip on her sword.

“I can’t promise it will look good,” Harrow said. “I’m not sure I can do more than create a likeness crafted out of human bone forms, but I will try my best.”

“No, that’s good actually, that sounds _terrifying_ ,” Gideon said, passionately. “I can’t wait to fight it.” Here she paused to nudge Harrow, her voice even lower than it had been a moment before. “It can be a warm up for, you know, that thing you need me to take care of downstairs.”

With the way Gideon lowered her eyes as she said this, it took Harrow a long moment of flustered confusion before she realized that _that thing you need me to take care of downstairs_ was not some perverted euphemism. Gideon was referring to whatever it was that kept destroying Harrow’s skeletons in the Canaan House basement.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” Gideon asked, but her smile told Harrow that Gideon knew exactly what she’d said.

“Don’t say it at all.” Harrow looked up at the others, but the sea was so loud and Gideon had kept her voice low. Everyone was staring--glaring, really--but it didn’t appear that they had heard. 

“Well?” Ianthe asked. She had her arms folded tight over her chest. Harrow fully expected that the Third would spend the rest of their day coming up with some spectacular way to show off their own necromantic acumen. Good, at least things would get more interesting.

“It would help if we had flimsy, so that you could draw the thing,” Harrow said.

Gideon shook her head. “Seriously, whatever. Make it vaguely fish-shaped, but like really big. I’m the only one here who will know if it’s wrong.”

All right, sure. Harrow could do that. She threw a handful of knucklebones overboard and she got to work. The water churned and bubbled. She felt blood welling in her left ear as the theorem pulled at her, as her well of thanergy twisted. Ianthe leaned over the edge to look down in the water, and when her violet eyes grew wider, Harrow knew that she had created something impressive. She added more spines fashioned out of human ribs, and a drop of blood slid from her nose.

Ianthe looked up toward Harrow and her face twisted when she saw Harrow’s focus, saw the blood at the edges of Harrow’s forehead. Harrow licked a drop from the corner of her mouth. Ianthe turned away, but it didn’t matter. Gideon was there, and she reached out, a hand on Harrow’s arm, and she said, “You’re a genius, Nonagesimus,” loud enough for all to hear.

Harrow couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across her face as she took a step back. The construct made its first loop, swimming around their boat, its spines breaking the surface and leaving a wake before disappearing again. Dulcinea gasped and Gideon raised her sword. Ianthe sat down and tried to look bored, but her eyes kept darting back toward the water, giving herself away. Corona was standing close to Harrow and the sound of her breathing was loud enough that Harrow could hear it over the surrounding sea.

The construct made one more pass around the boat, and then it was time.

Harrow sent the construct out toward the boat that held their cavaliers. The construct turned and then swam back, coming at them fast. When it was nearly on them, Harrow pulled the skeletal fish from the water, propelling it onto the deck.

Gideon shouted in unmistakable triumph. Dulcinea shrieked with gleeful abandon.

The construct was huge, assembled using an intersecting array human bone, yes, but Harrow had pushed each one to enormous exaggeration. She was honestly very impressed with herself. She’d never tried to push proportions so far before and the effect, rearranged into the general shape of a sea monster, was unsettling to say the least. 

Coronabeth was ready, standing with better form than Ortus had ever assumed, her rapier in hand. Aiglamene might find something to critique there, but she looked perfect in Harrow’s eyes. Gideon, on the other hand, was not concerned with form, didn’t seem interested in looking the part at all. Gideon was just itching for a fight. 

Harrow intended to give her one. 

The construct flailed, jaw working, sharp teeth snapping. It swiped toward Corona’s legs and Gideon blocked it with her big two-hander, half the jaw shattering beneath steel.

That wouldn’t do. Harrow knew that Gideon probably wasn’t thinking much about Corona in that moment--all of her focus was on the construct, but Her Divine Highness saving Coronabeth Tridentarius from the crazed bone construct of the Ninth was a story neither of them needed. It did not fit with the plan. Harrow pulled the construct away from the Third and pushed it toward Gideon instead. It made sense. Gideon was, after all, the real threat on this boat. Corona was an exhibitionist who’d learned how to hold a rapier to impress, a neat little necromancer’s party trick. 

Harrow allowed Gideon to get in one more big blow, shattering bone spines off the monster’s back, and then she propelled it off the boat and back into the water. Once the construct was beneath the waves, she narrowed her focus, tossed more bone over the side and rebuilt those areas that had been destroyed, so that when it breached the surface again, the monster was whole, as impressive as it had been the first time, and the entire boat gasped.

There was shouting from the second boat now, their cavaliers springing into action, fighting their bone captain to bring the boat up close. Harrow didn’t have much time. She went for Gideon with thrashing jaws and flailing fins. Gideon tore into it with her sword, let her momentum carry her into a downward strike that cleaved the shark’s head in two. 

Corona jumped back away from the beating tail and knocked into Harrow. Harrow stumbled back against the bench, her legs hitting the edge in a way that gave her no choice but to sit. She made sure the bone tail whipped toward Corona the next time the construct surged up from the sea, this time with only half its head.

By the time the second boat pulled up beside theirs, by the time Protesilaus the Seventh lept aboard, closely followed by a red-faced Naberius the Third, Her Divine Highness had demolished the bone beast, and she stood amidst the wreckage, with sweat on her brow and an enormous smile on her face.

“Are you hurt?” Corona asked, as she turned her back toward Naberius and reached for Gideon. Gideon barely seemed to notice. Her eyes were on Harrow and Harrow alone. 

Naberius the Third kicked at a pile of oss and said, “What the hell was that?”

Harrow pushed herself into the corner of the bench she’d fallen onto. She wiped blood from her face, and looked toward the second boat for her cavalier. Ortus stood at the side, flanked by two bone servants. He waved.

“I told them it was you!” he said. “I told them there was nothing to fear.”

“You should have seen it, Babs,” Ianthe drawled. “The Ninth lost control of her construct. If Her Divine Highness hadn’t been there, the Ninth’s ineptitude would have resulted in our dear Corona lost to the sea.”

Everyone, thankfully, ignored her.

Gideon, finally, came back from her post-battle haze and said, “That. Was. Amazing.” She pushed past Corona and Naberius, swept bone aside with her foot and then slid onto the bench beside Harrow. “That was--number one, those were the largest ribs I’ve ever seen outside of, like, books about dinosaurs? And those spines. You’re a fucking genius, you know that?”

“It looked like your shark?” Harrow asked. She felt dizzy. She pressed her hands tight to the edge of the bench.

“It looked _nothing_ like the shark I saw,” Gideon said. “Which is good, because if I’d seen _that_ , I would have pissed my pants immediately. That was--” She released her sword and lifted her hands, fingers splayed like she didn’t have the words for what she was feeling, but didn’t know quite how to physically express it either. 

For a moment, Harrow feared that Gideon might try to hug her. She braced for it, her shoulders tense, her hands gripping tight to her seat.

What Gideon did instead was so much worse.

She leaned in and she kissed Harrow on the side of her face, high up near her eye, and when she pulled away, there was a small smear of paint on her mouth, a bit of blood sweat on her lip, and Gideon either did not notice, or she did not care. She didn’t seem to feel it, didn’t try to rub it away. She stood and grabbed Naberius by his shoulders and said, “Did you see that?” and then moved on before the Third could sputter an answer. Harrow wiped her fingers against the side of her head, smeared the paint there in an attempt to cover up the place that Gideon had pressed her lips. She felt like she was on fire, felt like she would combust with embarrassment. 

Harrow stared down into the water and wondered if she could swim back to shore. She could at least make it to Ortus and hope he’d pull her out. He’d probably pull her out, though the accidental drowning of the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House would also achieve Ortus’s goal of never being required to marry Harrow. No, he would pull her out. And she may have misjudged earlier. Sharing a boat with Naberius the Third was probably marginally better than this.

Harrow didn’t throw herself overboard. She sat there in her corner while Dulcinea assured Protesilaus the Seventh that she was _fine_ , really, that she’d always been perfectly safe. She sat through the Third’s looks and Gideon’s smiles and eventually the cavaliers jumped back to their own boat and the leftover shark was swept aside. The captain turned their boat back toward the tower.

Harrow did not look up until Gideon sat down beside her again, and then Harrow cleared her throat and said, “Your Highness, I’m glad to see you so pleased.”

Gideon leaned in, smelling of sea and sweat, still a little like fish. It was honestly disgusting, but when she leaned closer, Harrow’s heart skipped with a strange betrayal. Gideon did not try to kiss her again. Instead she said, “Gideon. It’s Gideon.”

Harrow had not heard a single person call Gideon by her first name. Did the others even know it?

“Gideon,” Harrow said, and Harrow saw the way that Corona snapped to attention and realized that she was right. This was the first time for the others, but that couldn’t be right, could it? Gideon had introduced herself by name to Aiglamene at the ball on their very first night, and it hadn’t been a mistake. She’d given Harrow her name again that very night, alone with Harrow on a terrace.

Ianthe’s eyes were on Harrow as though she could hear the familiarity of the name on Harrow’s tongue.

“Gideon,” Corona repeated. She turned to her sister. “What an unusual name. How did the King of the Resurrected Sun choose it?”

“I’m named after a saint,” Gideon said. Corona stood and came to sit beside Gideon, crowding in at the other end of the bench. Gideon pushed in toward Harrow in an attempt to make room. “Gideon the First, his Saint of Duty.”

“You’re named after a Lyctor,” Ianthe said, leaning forward in her seat. Harrow understood the impulse. It was interesting information. It was new. 

“Of course she is,” Corona said. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? What better namesake for the daughter of a King, for the daughter of God, than a Saint?”

“It’s fine,” Gideon said. “It’s just a name.” 

“It suits you. Gideon.” She said this carefully, like she was tasting it on her tongue, savoring the flavor. When she spoke again she sounded a little breathless, a little--frankly a little turned on. Harrow’s face twisted in disgust before she could stop herself. Only Ianthe seemed to notice, and they both looked away from each other fast. “It suits you beautifully, doesn’t it suit her, Ianthe?” 

“Mm,” Ianthe said. She sounded bored. “I’m not sure that beautiful is the word I’d use.”

Harrow, once again, had no idea whether that was meant to be a complement or an insult. Gideon shrugged it off either way. Dulcinea said, “It’s very charming, isn’t it? To be named after one of the Saints?”

“Not really,” Gideon said. “Been years since I’ve seen him, but from what I remember, the Saint of Duty’s a dick, just like, a giant dick with a sword.”

Coronabeth laughed at that, a big laugh from her chest that she tried to cover with the palm of her hand.

Harrow was doing her part. She had agreed to this, and she intended to keep to her agreement. She would marry Her Divine Highness. She would replenish her house. Gideon had presented the idea and Harrow had agreed. That didn’t mean she understood it. Harrow wasn’t sure she’d ever understand why Gideon wasn’t planning to marry Coronabeth Tridentarius. It wasn’t that Gideon wasn’t attracted to her. Gideon was very clearly attracted to Corona, it was plain on her face, in the way that she gravitated toward Corona, her body leaning away from Harrow now, toward the princess. It was obvious in the way that Gideon smiled, crooked and nervous, whenever Corona crooned a complement. The Seventh saw it, and she was won over. Everyone had to see that chemistry, that magnetism. They saw it and they wondered why the hell Gideon would ever choose the Ninth.

Harrow turned away from the conversation, which had turned to the subject of swords, and Gideon’s sword in particular. When Corona asked to hold it, Harrow closed her eyes.

**

It was a terrible thing, being right all the time. 

Harrow suspected something was up as soon as the Ninth arrived for the fish dinner where Harrow did not plan to eat a single bite of a single fish last seen flopping around the deck at Coronabeth’s feet. From the corridor, the dining room rumbled with lively conversation, but it all fled right out through the big gaping hole in the ceiling as soon as the Ninth entered the room. If this was still the start of this stupid competion, that would have seemed entirely normal. No one was used to them then; they were a novelty, a black-draped spectacle peering out at the crowd from behind painted faces. They clicked bones over their breakfast and then disappeared back into the shadows. 

And then Ortus participated in a pool party, his paint all washed off, and everyone realized there was nothing at all to fear from the Ninth.

“I’ll find out what’s happened, my lady,” Ortus assured her. 

Ortus shuffled off as Aiglamene leaned down to pluck a card from one of the tables. “Assigned seats,” she said, with a roll of her good eye. 

Harrow felt all warmth drain from her face. “You can’t be serious.”

She looked back toward the door and contemplated making her escape, but stopped herself before she could give in to the impulse. She wanted this. She wanted this marriage that gave her everything she needed without really requiring a single thing of her...besides sitting through this dinner and subjecting herself to a few more weeks of group dates. She could do this.

Aiglamene found her seat between a retainer from the Third and Dulcinea Septimus. Ortus was deep in conversation with Protesilaus the Seventh, and while he was sitting, she suspected it was not his assigned position. Harrow scanned the room until Camilla the Sixth caught her eye. She started over toward the cavalier, but Camilla shook her head, then nodded Harrow toward her adept. All right. Palamedes Sextus. That wasn’t so bad. 

Harrow slipped silently into the seat beside Sextus, checked the placard to confirm she was in the right place. At the next table, Coronabeth Tridentarius sat beside Judith Deuteros. Ianthe was at the other side of the room, close enough to Protesilaus that Harrow hoped Ortus was being discreet with his words. Probably not discreet enough based on the little wave and the smile from Ianthe when she caught Harrow looking.

Harrow knew what this was. There was only one thing that hush could be about. Harrowhark Nonagesimus had actively avoided all of these people, had participated in exactly one (1) date, and had risen the ranks despite that, despite her sour attitude, her tattered black robes and her painted face. The other houses weren’t entirely stupid. They knew there had to be something happening behind the scenes, something that they were not privy to, that they had not witnessed. They were merely filling in the blanks with the most obvious answers.

“Kill me,” Harrow sighed. “Just end me already.”

“Hello to you too,” Sextus said. “If you keep up like that, I just might.”

That cheered Harrow up, but only slightly. After all, Ortus might actually be able to take Camilla the Sixth. She was the only other cavalier there that seemed to find her purpose in pursuits beyond the sword.

Harrow had not seen much of the Sixth since their encounter in the Eighth Lyctor study. She inspected the Fifth study on her own, no sign of the Sixth or the sneakiest third of the Third during her visit. She had plans to meet with Gideon in mere days to open the remaining doors, so she was unlikely to bump into the Sixth much at all going forward, if Sextus even managed to stay another week. She felt a little thrill of anticipation at the reminder that by morning she’d have the rest of the pieces she needed. She would understand one of the greatest mysteries of the Empire. 

And the Sixth--well, once she knew what she was dealing with, she’d make her decisions there. They were not friends. She owed the Sixth nothing, yet she couldn’t help but feel that they were the only House that would stand beside her if lines were drawn. She didn’t _trust_ Sextus, of course--she wasn’t a complete moron--but she thought she understood him. She understood a necromancer who arrived at the First and turned all of his attention and focus to the secrets locked up behind the tower’s doors. She understood Sextus’s focus on Lyctorhood. Her primary focus was not on becoming one of the Emperor’s fists and gestures, but this was only because it would not do enough to save her House from the destruction she had inflicted on it by being born. Harrow knew enough to know that there were no Lyctors in residence on the Second or the Third or the Seventh. She’d never found an account of a Lyctor visiting Drearburh. Harrow needed an heir and more than that she needed _people_ and her arrangement with Gideon would provide her with both. All she had to do was let Gideon leave once the work was done.

“You’ve been on an impressive trajectory,” Sextus said beside her. He said it a little too carefully. His tone pulled Harrow back to the present, to the knowing glances, to Ortus anxiously sucking information from the Seventh at the other side of the room.

“I’m surprised you beat out the Fifth,” Harrow returned, because she had to say something and the only other thing she could think to say was ‘Brooms and brides aside, I at least expected a _necromancer_ ’ (yes, she was still stuck on that). She hastily added: “but I’m glad to see you’re still here.”

Sextus smiled. “All it takes is the right cavalier. Without Camilla, I would have been on my way home right after the Eighth.”

“Nah,” Gideon said, appearing behind them with the usual line of little priests. “Camilla the Sixth does help though.” She said it with a familiarity that reminded Harrow again that there was a lot going on here that no one got to see. Harrow had never seen Gideon with the Sixth, not for a single moment since the ball, but it was clear that they’d spent time together. Either that, or Gideon was simply _very good_ at seeming intimately acquainted with everyone around her despite barely knowing them at all.

Ortus, who was also inexplicably good at seeming intimately acquainted with everyone around him despite barely knowing them at all, returned to Harrow’s side, a little red around the paint and breathing fast. He was flustered and when he bowed to Gideon, a small bend at the middle, Harrow saw that his hands were shaking and knew instantly that it was worse than she’d guessed. Gideon made a noise of protest in her throat at Ortus’s bow, and pushed a fist at his arm, as though they’d been ribbing each other their entire lives. 

“I wish you’d quit that.”

Ortus, who never had a comeback for anything, failed to come up with a comeback for that too. Instead, he gestured toward the empty chair beside Harrow and offered it to Her Divine Highness.

“Oh,” Gideon said, surprised. “Um, okay, I’ll be--” she picked up the card “--Menelea Sette until she arrives to claim her seat.”

Harrow started to shake her head, but Gideon wasn’t paying attention. She was waving at Teacher, and when she caught his eyes, she tilted her head down toward Harrow and the Master Warden. 

“This seems like a breach of protocol,” Harrow said, feeling a little helpless.

“It totally is,” Gideon agreed. She kept her voice low as she took a seat beside Harrow. “Or it would be.”

“Would be?” 

Gideon reached across the table to grab another card. She turned it toward Harrow to show her the seal of the First. “This is my assigned table too.” 

Behind Harrow, Ortus cleared his throat, but it sounded a little…gleeful?

“Ortus, sit down.” 

“My seat is beside the Third adept, my lady. Naberius the Third is currently occupying it.”

Always on cue, Coronabeth yelped from her spot beside her cavalier and then said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Babs, if you pinch me again, I’ll cut out your heart and serve it as an appetizer before this dinner.” This was the first relatable thing Corona had uttered during the entire competition.

“No, thank you,” Palamedes said, low enough that his voice wouldn’t carry beyond their immediate group.

Ortus cleared his throat again, and then began to fake a coughing fit.

“What is it?” Harrow asked. She was flustered by Gideon’s presence. The seating arrangement was cruel. Harrow would have preferred to see Gideon sitting beside the Third or the Seventh or the Second. It would be better than this, all of their eyes on her, glancing and sliding away. She pulled at the hood of her robe and felt Aiglamene’s elbow in her side from all the way across the room. 

Behind her Ortus said, “It’s nothing, my lady,” and Harrow felt the words on the back of her neck as her entire body entered into a Fight-or-Flight panic, her heart pounding in her chest, her skin crawling, nerves flaring on the back of her neck. She shoved her hands into her pockets and was comforted by the bones she found there.

“It’s something,” Palamedes corrected. He stilled, then looked up, as though he expected his cavalier to continue his thought and only just remembered that she was not at his side. 

“Right,” Ortus said. “The Master Warden is right. I suppose it is something, but perhaps we could discuss it with Captain Aiglamene following the dinner?”

“What is something?” Harrow pressed. “Tell me this instant or I will kill you in your sleep, strip off your meat, and puppet your skeleton around this tower, half a step behind me at all times like a true Ninth cavalier.”

Gideon nodded with what appeared to be quiet appreciation, as though that was something she might like to see Harrow try.

“There’s a rumor,” Ortus said, carefully. “That you and Her Divine Highness--” he cleared his throat for what felt the millionth time and glanced at Gideon--”The rumor is that you have been intimate with Her Divine Highness behind closed doors and this is the reason for your rapid rise in rank. They’ve speculated that you’re a pious shadow cultist in the ‘streets’ and a ‘bone-wielding necro-freak in the sheets.’”

Gideon laughed, loud and abrupt. It was a big full-throated laugh and Harrow had to close her eyes in an attempt to drown it out. How long had it been? Four days? Five? Less than a week since she’d conspired to marry this woman for the good of her House and she was already regretting it. Less than a week and Gideon was publicly breaking protocol and Harrow was--

“A bone-wielding _freak_ in the _sheets_.” Harrow repeated. 

“Necro-freak,” Gideon corrected.

She opened her eyes and turned to glare at Gideon. She knew this would happen. Ianthe warned her of exactly this and Harrow _warned_ Gideon, and then that fucking terrace dinner, and Gideon’s eyes lighting up with this silly plan that could fix absolutely everything but also could never work. It had only been a few days and the entire thing was already fucked. They might as well throw away the idea here and now.

“Come on,” Gideon said. She nudged Harrow. “It’s funny. Look, even Sex Pal is smiling.”

It took a moment for Harrow to translate that, and when she did, she turned her head toward Palemedes Sextus to find that he was, in fact, smiling just a little.

“ _Sex Pal?_ ”

**

Harrow emerged from the dining room fuming and flustered, having spent the entire evening wedged between the good natured First and Sixth, neither of whom found anything wrong with the horrific things that were being whispered about them--about the Ninth--at every other table in the room. Menelea Sette barely looked up from her plate the entire evening. She looked like she’d prefer to die on the spot. She was Harrow’s only friend.

“You aren’t upset by this?” Harrow asked Aiglamene, back in their rooms. 

Aiglamene shrugged her shoulders in a controlled way that reminded Harrow that though the captain had been on the Ninth for a long time, she’d lived an entire life off world before that. Salacious rumors weren’t common among the geriatric population of the Ninth House, which made this seem particularly appalling, but Aiglamene was Cohort once. Her face with its missing eye, her body with its missing leg, even her stance, suggested to Harrow that she had seen it all.

“Are you getting--how did Ortus put it?-- _freaky_ in Her Divine Highness’s sheets?” Aiglamene asked. It destroyed Harrow a little that there was no heat there, no judgment.

Harrow exploded anyway, horrified that her retainer would need to ask. “Of course not!”

Aiglamene remained calm. “Well then, it might be something to consider, but no, I’m not upset. The rumor may have been started with malicious intent, but it’s backfired almost immediately. This will do nothing but help the Ninth. We should play it to our advantage.”

“ _How_?” Harrow asked, though in truth her mind was still stuck on ‘It might be something to consider.’ The Ninth really _did_ think of Harrow as their-- “I’m sorry, did you say _something to consider_?”

“Her Divine Highness did seem rather delighted by the idea, didn’t she?”

“I assure you, she is not,” Harrow said. She should not have asked. She should not have said a thing. “And let me remind you, since everyone keeps conveniently forgetting--”

“Yes, yes, I know, my lady. You’re the Reverend Daughter, not the Ninth’s whore.”

“Precisely.”

“Which is why I was suggesting you might consider it _outside_ of our official capacities,” Aiglamene clarified. “Might be fun.”

Harrow felt the blood drain from her face. She could do nothing but turn on her heel and flee the scene. She grabbed Ortus by the arm and pulled him along. 

“Ortus, with me, please.”

Ortus took one last look back at Aiglamene and then followed Harrow through their main door and out into the hallway, his footsteps a heavy comforting presence behind her. 

“I’ve started writing our retaliation rumors, my lady,” Ortus said. “Having read my prior work, I know you’ll be--”

“We aren’t spreading retaliation rumors, Ortus.”

“Oh,” Ortus said, disappointment audible in that one syllable. “You know, it might be... _something to consider_.”

Harrow whirled around, a finger sharp in Ortus’s face. 

“Do _not_ try that with me. I will kill you without a moment’s hesitation. You know I’m capable of it.”

“I do know, my lady,” Ortus said. “And I don’t wish to die.”

“Then you’ll keep quiet and you’ll accompany me as my cavalier. You will act as my chaperone throughout the rest of our time here.”

Ortus stopped walking. “Your chaperone, my lady?”

“My chaperone,” Harrow repeated. “You will go where I go and remain where I remain. You shall be my witness so that, if asked, I can defend my honor.”

Ortus’s mouth worked as though he was trying to understand her words. Eventually he said, “This is a marriage competition. I didn’t realize anyone here cared about honor.”

**

The following evening, Harrow arrived at the designated meeting place with Ortus in tow. Her Divine Highness was already there, leaning against a wall of peeling wallpaper, her hands pushed into the pockets of her jacket. Gideon was wearing one of her many white suits, the jacket unbuttoned, the shirt perpetually open at the collar--she hadn’t buttoned all the way up since the commencement ball. Perhaps she couldn’t stand having anything tight against her neck. Her smile was bright when she saw Harrowhark approaching and she pushed herself away from the wall. It dimmed just a bit when Ortus rounded the corner, rapier bouncing against his side. 

“Your Highness.” Harrow tilted her chin up at Gideon as the Ninth came to a halt in this particularly decrepit corner of the First.

“Reverend Daughter,” she said with a formal bow. Her smile had tightened, just a little, into something more formal as well. “Ortus the Ninth.”

Ortus echoed Harrow’s words and Gideon’s bow. “Your Highness.”

“My cavalier has agreed to act as chaperone,” Harrow explained, as she carefully removed her gloves, “for the duration of our stay here.”

“Oh,” Gideon said, simply. 

Gideon looked at Ortus. Ortus looked back at Gideon.

They looked at each other long enough that Harrow started to suspect there was a silent conversation happening, though Harrow could not begin to guess the content based on either of their faces. “What are you--”

“Good!” Gideon burst out, suddenly. Ortus visibly exhaled.

“Good,” Harrow agreed.

Gideon gestured toward the intersecting corridor. “Ortus can stay here and keep an eye out for bone servants. If you see anyone coming down this way, warn me, okay?”

Ortus opened his mouth to respond and then glanced toward Harrow. “My lady?”

“It’s fine, Ortus. She’s not sending you away so that we can commit untoward acts--we’re breaking a lock. That one right there.” She pointed toward the door at the end of the corridor. 

“I’ve done this before,” Gideon agreed. “Several times actually, but when you get down to it Teacher’s a stand-in for my absent father, and he’s a busy-body. He doesn’t need to keep poking his nose in my business just because it’s been a boring myriad. You don’t want to know the things they get up to just to pass the time around here. You don’t even want to know what I get up to just to pass the time around here.”

“Yes, the Ninth is the same,” Ortus said, unsolicited. 

Harrow made a show of examining the seams of her gloves.

“I shall keep watch,” Ortus corrected. “I have extraordinarily good vision.”

At that, Ortus turned away and did as had been requested of him. He remained at the end of the corridor, his eyes on the intersecting passage. Occasionally he glanced back toward Harrow and Gideon. That was good. He was taking the position very seriously, which meant Harrow’s threats on his life had worked. 

Gideon was quiet as she led Harrow toward the ornate door. Once there, she pulled a wrapped bundle from her pocket and dropped it onto the floor. It hit with a heavy thump. Next she shrugged out of her jacket. This she handed to Harrow. Harrow took it and draped it carefully over her forearm. 

Harrow’s chest felt tight. Standing there beside Gideon, she found that her heart kept losing its rhythm, fluttering in her chest, pounding irregularly. She’d wondered about Lyctorhood for years, since receiving her first letter from a young Palamedes Sextus questioning the theory behind it. She’d asked her parents, who responded with unsatisfying religious dogma about Saints and the Necrolord’s fingers and thumbs. She searched the books in the Ninth’s libraries and came up empty. She wrote letters back to Sextus and never sent a single one. In the end, she determined that Lyctorhood would not solve the Ninth’s problems, regardless of how it was accomplished. 

The solution to the Ninth’s problem was standing too close to Harrow, her eyes dark in the shadows, her presence a warmth that tickled at Harrow’s skin even beneath the layers of Ninth robes. 

Lyctorhood was never going to give Harrow what she needed, but Harrow still craved the knowledge. She collected secrets--everyone on the Ninth did--and she could not think of a more highly coveted secret than this. She would know the truth before Sextus, before the Third or the Seventh or the Second, though the Seventh and the Second hardly seemed to care. 

Gideon was still standing there as though waiting for Harrow to speak.

Harrow spoke: “I still don’t understand how the keys and these doors, the theorems and the trials downstairs tie into our purpose here. Does the Emperor intend for you to marry a Lyctor? Why not just say so?”

Gideon snorted. 

“That’s funny?”

“A little,” Gideon said. She was still standing far too close. Harrow was starting to wonder if Ortus was right to hesitate at Gideon’s request to send him to the end of the hallway.

“I don’t see how,” Harrow sniffed.

Gideon shrugged. She took a step back from Harrow. The air cooled and Harrow sucked in a deep steadying breath. 

Gideon leaned her back against the wall. She shifted her bundle a little closer to the door with the toe of her boot. “It’s funny because I’m not marrying one of his Lyctors. No fucking way.”

Harrow felt Gideon shutting down, and she took a step closer, determined to finish the conversation even if it meant suffocating within her robes. “Why not?”

“Because they’re all a bunch of weirdos,” Gideon said. “It fucks people up, and also I’m going to get old and my Lyctor wife is going to stay looking the same as she always did, except she’s going to get weirder and more fucked up. Who would want that?”

Harrow frowned, unable to fit this in with the conversation they had days ago on the terrace. “Does that matter? You don’t plan to be there to see it happen.”

Gideon shook her head. “If I marry a Lyctor, I’m not going anywhere except the Mithraeum, and I’m not voluntarily spending the rest of my life on that boring empty space station. Anyway, if he wanted me there, then I’d be stuck there right now and not here, so I guess he must not want me to marry a Lyctor, thank _God_.”

Gideon slid down the wall until she was crouched at eye level with the keyhole. This also put her down around Harrow’s middle. She picked up her bundle and then looked up at Harrow. Some of the heat had left her face. Her gaze felt softer now, and Harrow’s stomach gave a strange twist. She knew she shouldn’t have consumed that fish. She’d felt off ever since.

Gideon tilted her head toward where Ortus was stationed. She smiled. “A chaperone for the duration of your stay?” This was followed by a wink. 

Harrow tightened her grip on Gideon’s jacket and tilted her own head toward the door. “Is there something wrong with your eye?”

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

“I suppose I should feel honored that you find this all funny,” Harrow said. “What kind of weird bone sex rituals are the cultists cooking up way out there in their lonely corner of space, is that it?”

“Look, I grew up surrounded by skeletons too,” Gideon said. “For all anyone knows, I’m the one with the weird bone sex rituals.”

Harrow sighed.

“I’m not though,” Gideon amended, quickly. 

Harrow studied Gideon’s face, the smooth expanse of her forehead, the shape of her eyebrows. In the dim light, her yellow eyes looked metallic, like polished gold coins. Gideon did not turn her attention to the lock. She barely touched her mysterious bundle, and eventually Harrow, unsure what to say or do, managed to get out, “The door?”

Gideon twitched as though startled. She nodded, her eyes leaving Harrow’s face as she began to unwrap her little bundle of tools, her thigh serving as a makeshift table. Harrow wrapped her arms around herself, pulling her robes tight against her. Once the tools were out and balanced precariously on Gideon’s thigh, Gideon leaned back against the wall and said, her voice low, “You know people are going to spend the rest of their lives assuming we’re getting it on behind closed doors, right? That’s kind of expected.”

“We aren’t married and that was never part of our agreement.”

“I know, but--” Gideon checked some scribbled words on a scrap of flimsy and then picked up what looked to Harrow like a bit of trash, like a piece of rusted metal. “We want them to think so, don’t we?”

“I most certainly do not want them to think that.”

“Well, _I_ do.” Everything in Gideon’s bundle looked like rusting rotting bits of Canaan House collected by a bored child and bundled together into a sad little treasure trove of trash. It was pathetic, but Harrow understood. She had a collection of favorite Ninth fingerbones. 

Gideon got to work on the lock, but she paused after a moment and looked back up at Harrow. Harrow was losing patience.

“This is good, Harrow. They already think we’re screwing, so how can anyone be surprised when I keep picking you first?”

Harrow shook her head vehemently. She didn’t understand how everyone could be so _comfortable_ with salacious lies. What kind of woman was Gideon to laugh in the face of a scandal that questioned her very character? 

“No one in the Ninth would ever dare to say such things,” Harrow said, practically seething.

“No one in the First would either, but like...look around. Who could? There’s no one here. Honestly though, do you really care what the Third or the Second or the Seventh thinks about you? Who did you come here to impress, the Third or, like…well, me?”

“I didn’t come here to impress anyone. I came here to help my House and repay a debt.”

Gideon shrugged and swapped out her rusty wire for something that looked like a rusty hook. “And this will help your House, right, so who cares if they think you’re a kinky little shadow cultist?”

 _Your Highness_!” 

She saw Ortus spin back toward them out of the corner of her eye. She did not take her eyes off Gideon as she snapped, “Ortus, mind your business. Turn around and keep watch!” 

Ortus did as he was told.

Gideon continued, hardly fazed: “And like, think about it. If anyone should be upset here, it’s _me_. This is really a judgement on me, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see how,” Harrow said, but of course she saw how. The entire point was to highlight how _insufficient_ Harrow was, to assess the Ninth House and find her wanting, to insinuate that Harrow must be committing lewd and perverted acts to get as far as she had, but that was only half of it. There was the other side of this, which shouted that Her Divine Highness could be bought with base pleasure, that she could be turned by a blasphemous black vestal, her mind clouded, heart twisted. Her Divine Highness said she wanted a wife, but she was content with a--with a--kinky little shadow cultist. Next they’d be crying blasphemy and treason.

This competition was rotten at its core, the entire thing designed to debase, to humiliate and cast aside. If Harrow didn’t so desperately need what was promised, she would walk away from this without another word. She clutched Gideon’s jacket in her hands, her fingers tight in the fabric. She was going to leave a crease. The jacket smelled like Gideon, like dust and salt and cold wet stone. Harrow did, in fact, desperately need what Gideon was promising. 

The day before, toward the end of their fishing trip as the boat approached the tower, Ianthe leaned forward and said, “Gideon, you have a bit of the Ninth’s paint, just there.” She ran her finger across her bottom lip.

Corona was ready. She jumped to accept the opportunity presented by her sister. 

“Oh, you do,” she said. “And some of the Ninth’s blood too.” 

Gideon moved to wipe her face on the back of her hand, but Corona shook her head and caught Gideon’s hand in hers. She licked the pad of her other thumb and swiped it across Gideon’s lower lip, carefully smudging the paint away. From Harrow’s spot on the bench she couldn’t see how it looked, but she saw the excitement of the moment reflected in Dulcinea’s wide eyes, and she knew it looked lewd and, most likely, very beautiful at the same time.

“If anyone is being inappropriately intimate in this competition, it’s the Third,” Harrow said, and regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth. She sounded pathetic, wretchedly nonsensically jealous. 

“Okay,” Gideon ceded from her crouched position at the door. “Okay, I get it, but like--for the record, the thing with Corona’s thumb was weird, I know, and I should have realized your paint would transfer.”

“You shouldn’t have kissed me at all.”

“I _know_ , I wasn’t thinking, but Harrow, that shark was _so fucking good_. Can you really blame me? God, I swear you’re coming on every group date until the end of this, and on every one I will beg you to make something monstrous and have it try to kill us all. Fishing fucking sucks, but _that_.” She shivered, as though a little thrill had coursed through her just at the thought of fighting the construct again. “You earned this room, is what I’m saying. And the next. And the next. And then, after there are no more doors to unlock, you’re showing me that thing that’s destroying your skeletons in the basement. I haven’t forgotten that.”

Gideon wasn’t actually doing anything, not really, but this entire thing seemed so inappropriate that Harrow couldn’t look at her. It was that little shiver, the way Gideon’s eyes fell shut at the thought of every date turning into a fight for her life. It was Harrow still holding the jacket that Gideon handed her, the fabric warm against Harrow’s bare fingers, and Gideon with the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows as she picked the lock on the big black ornate door. When Harrow didn’t say anything, Gideon got back to work and turned her focus from Harrow to the keyhole. Harrow felt some of the tension leave her shoulders, but when she dared another glance, she found a Gideon in focus, all her attention on the door. It wasn’t an easier sight. Gideon’s brow was furrowed in concentration and the tip of her pink tongue poked out between her lips. 

Harrow shut her eyes and didn’t open them again until she heard the click of the door. 

**

Dominicus was rising by the time Harrow entered the last of the Lyctor studies and stood before the final theorem. Her eyes burned and she blinked hard to clear her head. 

Ortus kept yawning, big cavernous _aaaahhhhh-hhhaaaaaaas_ , which set Gideon yawning, which set Harrow yawning, which set Ortus yawning all over again. 

As soon as Gideon opened the door of this last study, she went straight to one of the narrow beds and collapsed back against the sheets. Harrow expected to see a cloud of dust puff around her, but these rooms were somehow shielded by the settling of time. Harrow couldn’t allow herself to linger long on the prone form of Her Divine Highness. She turned straight toward the area set up as a laboratory, her tired eyes passing hungrily over the theorem spelled out there. She held her hand out toward Ortus and Ortus placed her journal into her open palm. Harrow jabbed her pen into her sore cheek and wrote this theorem beside the others, rearranged them, turned them over again to look at them from another angle. Her lips felt dry, cracked, and she pressed her tongue to her lower lip and felt the scratch of her flaking skin. 

Something was missing.

“Lady Harrowhark?” Ortus asked. He pulled out a chair so that she could sit down. Harrow ignored him.

“This can’t be right.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes and then she read through the theorems again.

“What?” Gideon asked from the bed, pushing herself up on her elbows so that she could see them from across the room. 

“This is--if these theorems are correct--this can’t be Lyctorhood. There are only eight theorems here. There are ten laboratories down in the basement.”

Gideon shrugged her shoulders. The collar of her shirt was rumpled. It gaped at her neck where she’d unbuttoned it. “This is it, as far as I know. If there were two more laboratories they might have been his and--but it was so long ago. If they didn’t set them like they did these, there might be nothing left.”

“No,” Harrow said. She crossed the room and held her journal open before Gideon, invited Gideon to see for herself.

Gideon merely shook her head and looked up at Harrow with another shrug.

Harrow huffed and pulled the book back. “I’m supposed to believe that Lyctorhood is a necromancer incorporating the soul of her cavalier and using it to fuel an enhanced eternal life?”

There was a pause. Ortus stopped mid-yawn, his mouth snapping shut on the _hhhaaaaa_. 

Gideon’s eyebrows rose, and Harrow assumed that meant that she understood that the theory was incomplete, but when she spoke she said, “That sounds about right, actually,” and she sounded impressed.

Harrow shook her head. “No, something is missing. Who would do this? I don’t even like Ortus, but I’d never _kill and consume_ him. I’d never willingly pin his soul to mine.”

Ortus, whose blood had all drained from his face leaving his skin the same color as his faded paint, removed his hand from the hilt of his rapier as though that could ever save him from Harrow. “Thank you, my lady.”

Harrow sat on the bed beside Gideon, the mattress sinking beneath their combined weight. She looked around the room, took in the shelves of books, the rapiers and antique pistols on the walls. The room was quiet except for the sound of Gideon’s breathing, which seemed loud and fast, like Gideon had just returned from a jog or bested an opponent in a training match. 

Ortus sat down on the other bed and looked at the pillows longingly.

Harrow asked, “Whose room is this?”

“Fourth,” Gideon said. She pointed to a banner on the opposite wall.

Harrow looked up at it, then down at Gideon, then decided she couldn’t look at Gideon, and returned her eyes to her journal. She realized that, in sitting down on the bed, she’d positioned herself so that Gideon’s hip was pressed against her lower back. She shook her head and focused on the task at hand. “There is no room in the design of this game for the Fourth key to ever be obtained. Whoever makes it to the very end of this--” (“That would be you,” Gideon reminded her) “--the key to this room would still be missing from their collection. Are there other keys that are also absent from this competition?”

“I’ve been all over this place. This is the last one.”

Harrow stared down at her journal and began to read her notes aloud. “Look. I’ve placed them in the only order that makes sense. I won’t read you the full theorem--neither of you would understand it--but I will summarize the goal of each. First, preserve the soul with intellect and memory intact. Second, analyze it and understand its structure and shape. Third, remove the soul and absorb it, take it into yourself without consuming-- _no._ If this is everything then it’s--then they never finished what they started, but why wouldn’t they? Why would they end it here?”

She could feel Gideon watching her, those rich yellow eyes searching her face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Gideon said, then: “You really think it’s horrific and far-fetched? One flesh, one end, Harrow. It’s right there in the oath.”

Ortus emitted a pathetic strangled sound. He looked like a sad old dog about to be put down.

“ _One flesh, one end_ is an oath of fealty,” Harrow said. “It is not a contractual agreement to murder.”

“Not murder,” Ortus said, from the other bed. Gideon and Harrow both startled at his voice. “But sacrifice is surely implied.”

Gideon nodded as Harrow shook her head.

“Stop talking, Ortus. You aren’t sacrificing anything for me today, nor ever if I have anything to say about it.”

“I’m grateful,” Ortus said, earnestly, and then his sad eyes shifted to Gideon. “We were nearly engaged, you know.”

Gideon’s eyes grew wide and bright at this news. “Whoa, okay, am I stepping on toes here?” She shifted back toward the other side of the bed, her body pulling away from Harrow’s until Harrow could no longer feel the press of Gideon’s hip against her back. 

“No!” Harrow and Ortus said, with force and in perfect unison.

“I’m not a homewrecker,” Gideon pressed, but she’d seen the horror on their faces and she relaxed just a little in response.

“Hardly,” Harrow sniffed. “Ortus, I understand your point. Rest assured I have no intention of testing these theorems or demanding that you submit to this, nor do I have any intention of…marrying you.”

“Good,” said Ortus and Gideon, with force and in perfect unison.

Harrow stood. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Gideon agreed. She reached out her hand toward Harrow. 

Harrow moved to take the offered hand without thinking, ready to pull Gideon back up into a sitting position. Her hand was nearly there when she caught herself and paused, brain catching and heart hitching on the imminent press of her bare palm to Gideon’s bare palm. Gideon was strong and healthy, that was evident from one glance at her arm muscles straining against the fabric of her white shirt. She did not need Harrow’s help, which pushed the request back into the realm of _inappropriate_ and calculated. Gideon was still poking fun at Harrow for being offended by the rumor.

Harrow pulled herself in, her hand pressed firm to her side, hidden within the folds of her robe. “Ortus, please help Her Highness to her feet.”

Gideon did not wait for Ortus to stand and help her up. Her extraordinary eyes sparkled with mirth as she pushed herself up and off the bed without any assistance.

“Chaperones,” she said, in mock lament.

Harrow refused to find it funny, which wasn’t that difficult. She was still caught up in the theorems, still turning them over in her head. She did not have time for Gideon’s games. “Are you planning to send Sextus home this week?”

Gideon stilled at the question. It was unexpected. Harrow had never asked for intel on key ceremonies before.

Gideon smoothed her hands over her wrinkled shirt, then down across her thighs. She picked up her jacket from where she’d discarded it on the bed and said, “I haven’t decided yet. Does it matter?”

“Not at all,” Harrow said, and led the group from the room.

**

Harrow did not see much of Gideon the rest of that week. The priests seemed to have Gideon on a set schedule with very little time for uninterrupted mingling. Harrow supposed it was part of the plan for keeping her in high demand, or perhaps to hide the fact that she was a lewd pervert, coarse and untoward. Maybe they knew she was desperate to marry the first person willing to tie themselves to her without any expectation of love or affection or permanence. Surely they must know she had some scheme if Gideon was so eager for everyone to assume she could be sullied and seduced by a--what was it?-- _necro-freak_. What little Harrow did see of Gideon consisted of passing moments in corridors during which Gideon always reached a hand out for Harrow’s and Harrow always refused. The third time this happened, Gideon dramatically slapped her rejected hand back against her heart, as though fatally wounded by Harrow’s rebuff. 

“I’m happy to see you having so much fun,” Ortus said after this final encounter. 

Harrow was unable to find an appropriate response and settled for a lengthy death glare. 

Gideon, she knew, had solo dates with both the Second and the Sixth. Harrow, meanwhile, spent her time mulling over the theorems, trying to come up with any other explanation, any other way that they could possibly fit together that didn’t seem so wrong and reprehensible. She wanted nothing more than to talk with Palamedes Sextus, but she could not disclose the arrangement that had provided her access to the information.

Instead, she dragged Ortus down into the basement facility, guided him along the terrace, carefully coaxed him past crumbling ledges and watched the way his legs shook on the ladder with trepidation. She returned to each of the trials and recognized now how they fit in with the theorems, saw that they were designed to test the practical application of each step. But there was something missing. There must be something missing. If this was Lyctorhood, who would want it? 

She presented it to Aiglamene, spelled the entire process out while Aiglamene listened, calm and collected, and when Harrow said, “This doesn’t seem horrid to you? It doesn’t seem incomplete?” Aiglamene merely shrugged.

“I’ve seen the lengths that we will go to achieve our necessary ends.”

That was what did it. That was the moment that made Harrow consider that maybe Gideon and Aiglamene were seeing this more clearly than Harrow herself. Why wouldn’t a necromancer consume the soul of her cavalier? Why wouldn’t she pin it in place and run and run and run for a myriad or longer? 

Why wouldn’t they murder two hundred children to produce the perfect heir? 

Harrow had consumed her share of souls. She was stuffed and had no desire to add any more to her collection. She understood it now, that was enough. She understood it and she rejected it. It was worse than the competition. It was unthinkable. She could hold Gideon’s hand and kiss Gideon’s cheek and look on her face with a smile for the rest of her days, and she would be thankful everyday that she was afforded the chance to repay her House this way, a way that did not require an acceptance of Lyctorhood. 

At the close of the week, the Ninth waited beside the Sixth as Gideon stood with keys ready, prepared to send another house home.

“You’ll write this time?” Sextus asked. He kept his eyes to the front as he said it, but his cavalier glanced toward Harrow and nodded.

“I’ll consider it,” Harrow acquiesced.

The Seventh was situated to Camilla’s right and Dulcinea looked like she was shaking in her wheelchair. In fact, she had her hand gripped tight to Camilla’s arm. Protesilaus the Seventh stood behind his adept, conversing quietly with Ortus about _The Noniad_ of all things. Ortus, it seemed, had found himself a fan.

At the front of the room, Teacher cleared his throat and Gideon stepped forward. 

“We’re getting down to it now,” Gideon began, with a warm smile. “If I’m honest, I wouldn’t choose to let any of you go. I’d keep you all here with me as one big disfunctional family, but that’s not how I’m told this works. A choice must be made, and Teacher insists that choice must be made tonight.” Teacher chuckled and waved his hands at that. “And we will get there, sooner than I’d like, but first: Ninth House, would you please come forward and accept the first key?”

Harrow stepped forward to accept the key, nervous and certain that Gideon would try to take her hand again. Gideon did not attempt it and Harrow stepped back to her place feeling satisfied and relieved. The Third was called second and Dulcinea gasped as though this was a surprise. Coronabeth stepped forward with her coiffed head held high to accept her key. She caught Gideon’s hand along with the key and pulled Gideon’s knuckles in to brush against her lips in a reverent kiss. When she stepped back she did so with a little bow.

“Wow,” Gideon said with a laugh. “That was--thanks!”

“You know it was the Third spreading those rumors,” Palemedes murmured beside Harrow. 

“Of course, I know.”

The Seventh House was next. Dulcinea settled back into her wheelchair and Protesilaus brought her to the front to accept her key.

Gideon took a deep breath. She scanned the dwindling crowd, and then her eyes fell on Harrow and she said, “And now we come to the Sixth House. Sixth, will you accept this key?”

Palamedes and Camilla both looked a little stunned. When Palamedes hesitated, his cavalier gave him a gentle push on the shoulder to get him moving. 

The Second took their loss well, with straight backs and perfectly cordial smiles on their faces. Gideon, for her part, hugged both the necromancer and the cavalier tightly, a warmer embrace than Harrow would have thought the Second likely to accept. The hug was further than Gideon had ever dared try with the Ninth, despite the rumors. 

“Well. It appears we live to see another week,” Palamedes said. “Judging by that smoldering look, I suspect I have you to thank for that?”

“I’d hardly describe it as smoldering,” Harrow countered. “And I assure you I have no idea what any of that was about. I am, however, pleased by the results.”

“As am I,” Palemedes agreed. “I look forward to seeing what the Third plans for you next. In the meantime…” He held up his key. “Shall we see what the Second House study has in store?”


End file.
